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My master’s degree's a senior’s cruise - most of the other students are thirty and even forty-somethings. Good for them, for making the (75K) investment, it’s hard, and they all look very serious. I am too, of course.

It’s busy and constant - but it’s business analysis - it's not hard, like chemistry (see retrosynthetic analysis) and I’m lucky, I’m fresh off uni - used to working problem-sets and reading a couple of hundred pages a night.

That said, last week was wearying. I look forward to Fridays (like everyone), as the light at the end of the tunnel. Then my Grandmère FaceTimed me asking if I could go through an ‘investor deck’ and give her advice. “Look at it and give it to me.. unsweetened,” she said
(“Regarde-le et donne-le-moi... non sucré”).
‘Sure,’ I thought, ‘maybe I can tell van Gogh how to paint or Taylor Swift how to influence as well.

Surely, asking someone to do something late on a Friday afternoon is a minute refinement of cruelty, but I couldn’t say 'no'. That didn’t mean I was happy - I’m very jealous of my time. It’s too easy to toss the sauce on my routines.

I took an hour and looked it over, then gave her a poetic answer,
“It’s an options fog, masquerading as opportunity.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said. I know that old bird, she’s nuanced. Was that a test? There was a smile in her voice.
Part of me longed to say, “Sometimes, like on a Friday night, one head’s better than two,” but I didn’t - because what night would be good for a surprise assignment?

Two hours later, Chella and I had some students over for cocktails. Four of them (2 guys 2 girls) were Japanese. Their English wasn’t great, but we had fun. They brought a bottle of nihonshu (sake), that stuff is like water - seriously.

So I made them martinis. Their eyes bugged out with their first sips, but first martini sips always taste like gasoline. It’s the second martini that starts to taste like mother’s-milk. Before long, they were smashed and then they started singing.

That was when the real fun started. They had karaoke songs on their phones. We sang, we danced. They taught us some songs and we did the same.

“At this point in our lives,” Chella said, “It’s important to bop so hard,” everyone cheered. What a slay - she was so real, so feral for that.
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Songs for this:
Something Every Day (Little Wizard Mix) by Swing Out Sister
Yoru ni kakeru by YOASOBI
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Our cast:
Chella - A tall, lithe black girl, from Liberty City (Miami) Florida with a ‘Bachelor of Science in Global Affairs’ from Yale and currently a Harvard Master's candidate.  She had it rough growing up - she was buying skin-care at Trader Joes! I'm showing her some things.
Your author, a simple trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia with a Bachelor of Science in Molecular Biophysics and Biochemistry from Yale, currently a Harvard Master's candidate.
Grandmère, my very French Grandmother. Tiny, frail looking and privately very funny - but don’t underestimate her or ever try and bull$hit her - she's a Mogul.
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 07/14/25:
Nuance = a fine difference in tone, color or meaning.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                          Hallowed be Thy App

               “…that unmistakable English church-going pace…
               holding, bound in black lamb-skin and white celluloid,
               the liturgies of a half dozen conflicting sects…”

                                -Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

One sees a Bible only occasionally
Even more rarely a Sunday missal
Which, with coat and tie and the mantilla
Are relics of a courtlier, more dignified time

The faithful now carry the scriptures as apps
The rosary the same (maybe next to Candy Crush)
An electronic conscience funded by an investment firm
And available at a low introductory price

A talking box - it must be Godly and true
And just as eternal as the Apple II
I was weak.
That’s the truth I’m trying to swallow.
Not proud—never proud.
Just... hollow.
It wasn’t love.
It wasn’t joy.
It was me, trying to outrun the man I failed to become for you.

Her perfume didn’t enchant me—it distracted me.
Her laugh didn’t move me—it made me forget the silence I created between us.
You were there every night—polishing shoes, folding shirts, But I looked at comfort and called it routine.
I mistook loyalty for obligation.
And when I felt small, I found a way to feel wanted again—cheaply, recklessly.

Yes, it was weakness.
Not temptation.
There were no fireworks.
Just a flicker in the dark and the sound of me closing the door behind your back.
I regret it—every mark she left And every trace I brought home to unravel you.
You didn’t deserve to feel second to anyone. Ever.

But here I stand, not asking for forgiveness— Just owning the wreckage and calling it mine.
How come— he who bends me never broke me But rather, his pleasure is what I desire
I thought it was pain, but when it lasted, I long for the feeling.
I cried and moaned softly— but amidst the push and the pull, I laughed playfully
I toss, I turn.
My blankets—too warm,
then too cold,
like storms across my skin.
My thoughts go.

Never silence—
just a pain burning behind my eyes,
a mind wired
to a clock not built
for this reality.

I get up and circle my room,
Sit down, play a tune,
Write my ghosts onto paper,
Reshape my pillow.

A breeze,
a hum,
a passing car—
all rise like ghosts,
but none loud enough
to drown the ones in my head.

“Please be quiet,”
I whisper to my mind.
But instead,
it grins and says:

“Remember what you did 10 years ago?”
“Wasn’t that moment strange? Embarrassing? Wrong?”

I give no reaction.
I’ve learned:
engagement feeds them.
So I lie there,
Handing off insane,
hoping the ceiling swallows me whole
And take away my pain.

I cannot shut off—
not until I’m lowered, into a silence
Surrounded by the mournful,
deep enough to dull the thoughts,
until I’m sealed away
and my mind finally softens.
I heard the whisper on the shore,
Walking along the hot, dry sand.
It burnt the soles of my bare feet.

The hot, humid breeze singed my ears.
Autumn, autumn is calling, it hummed.
We hear her chant from far away.

My friends in Australia called out to me,
It carried across the vast oceans and seas,
"We'll send her your way, friend, but

Only when we're good and done."
you light a match
the flame forgets
I close my eyes
echoes pass through us
I can't tell, is it
a mirror or a door
we are suspended in shapes
that keep on crying
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