Perfect Stranger
What I wasn’t prepared for was the perfect stranger, an outpatient, who I would meet later that day.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the perfect stranger, an outpatient, who I would meet later that day.
A semi-poetic, unfocused, whiskey-soaked rant about the sweet spot between isms and that our choices in ideologues is a pack of false shaman preaching horseshit.