I’m sitting in a café reading excerpts of excellent prose and as I read this one by David Foster Wallace, a writer who I have been afraid to read because he has made my friends cry and my feelings are far too fragile for intentional inspiration: “If you’ve never wept and want to, have a child.”
As I’m reading this, a newborn child with his blue eyes and his bald head and his soft, soft skin in the angel light floats by, held in his fathers arms like wings, and I remember how I sway between my desire to give birth and my fear of it.

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