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THE LOCKED DIARY #13: THE SQUID INK PASTA HOUSE IN THE MOUNTAINS

And other things we lose in the fire.

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I swallow back bile as the door slowly opens.


SLAM SLAM SLAM. My heart is exhausted from all that thrashing against the pre-war floorboards.

She can't make eye contact with me. She's rushing around getting ready to go to the Catskills to stay with our mutual friend Blaine, in the gorgeous mid-century modern he bought during his "What does it ALL MEAN?" phase of the global pandemic. He painted it black—squid-ink-pasta black—which would be viewed as a gothic choice if it were my home.

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