Home and the World


Momo loved the Hudson. On clear afternoons, when yachts glided by on the river’s shimmering surface, she gazed upon the Statue of Liberty and decided to become an American some day. ‘When has geographical distance stopped us romantics, Juju?’ she asked, her bold red dreams flying like Cadillacs against blue Manhattan skies.

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Ed was no Beethoven, and comedy was not composition: his genius could not emerge despite his muteness like the maestro’s symphonies had despite deafness. Nowadays, he haunted the dim rows in the club, drowning in expensive disguises and cheap bourbon. And every midnight, when a tavern door uncorked itself, he stumbled out Eduard Pacinto once more, flowing into the flickering city streets. And within the fabric of those deserted nights, some old applauses pierced through to him, stitching themselves against his suffocating silence.

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