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197. Remember Clarice

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There is a mountain behind my house. On the mountain, lives a girl. Her name is Clarice and she plays the flute. It sounds like nothing I’ve heard before and my dad is a flautist. He practices eighteen hours a day, without food or drink. Today, he swallowed a bottle of pills. Red, green and blue. “There’s a game of Tetris going on in my stomach, and I don’t think I’ll win this time.” I laughed and Clarice’s song drifted in through the window. Like a summer breeze. My dad and I sat on the puke-stained rug listening to her.

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