What if the confusion of childhood was wrapped in the confusion of finding a writing voice? What if the confusion of childhood is the confusion of finding a writing voice? What if childhood is writing? What if writing grew up? Would it answer all your questions instead of raising more?
What if when reviewing a book, the reviewer got one book confused for another? What if mock reviewing is the highest form of flattery? Does that mean mock duck is the highest form of duck? When one mocks a duck, does one pretend to be a duck or is the mockery something higher than engaging in simple duckery? When is reviewing a book really consist in nothing but ducking one's own writing assignments? When will your ship finally come in?
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