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by Sophia Macris

This was the winter I stayed in a lot, listening to Blonde on Blonde on repeat, the whole damn album, because it was the only thing that made sense to me. The rest of my life was lived automatically. The alarm rang and I went to work, stayed there my regulation ten hours, laughed in an obligatory manner at jokes in the office, walked home when it was dark outside and then listened to Blonde on Blonde. I maintained my appearance, but in a generic way. A face made up like the magazines, outfits assembled like paper dolls. My apartment was hot; it was a mild winter and the heat in the building was oppressive, so I would lie on my bed naked and listen to Blonde on Blonde.

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Sophia Macris, author of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, likes owls, James Merrill, and tequila shots.