Sometimes, things come together. Time, place, people, thought, soft afternoon sunshine, salty sea spray - everything - everything comes together in an exhilarating, intoxicating rush of adrenaline, testosterone, music and laughter that sculpts the soul, makes life real, and makes you who you are.
But things come apart again. Life moves on. The clocks didn’t all stop. We didn’t die then and there. The grey world that dawns the morning after Camelot, packing your bags for Faisalabad after winning the Ashes, it’s the hardest part. You still gotta do what you gotta do.
But things come apart again. Life moves on. The clocks didn’t all stop. We didn’t die then and there. The grey world that dawns the morning after Camelot, packing your bags for Faisalabad after winning the Ashes, it’s the hardest part. You still gotta do what you gotta do.
This haunting story is about the end of magic, about when the universe no longer has a center. Fortunately, the story still is on the New Yorker’s website.
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