It's not even true winter yet, and my studio apartment is hopelessly chilly as if the street lamp outside the paper-thin window is the source of all the world's cold. Researching my graduate thesis in Magical Realism, reading the lush descriptions of my Colombia is painful. Longing squeezes my heart like a tourniquet. So, I spend the chilly evening with a cup of decaf tea, a thick blanket,
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