Lemon Meringue Pie

I’ve spent the summer looking over old work, returning to a past self and his observations, reclaiming the writing from his caprices. In those years, I wrote in a white hot state, as though a clock were ticking, and I had to beat it. It was hardly sustainable; it was hardly writing, really, more of a manic kind of completion. Still, each piece has something. I’ve become the editor of my younger self, custodian to an anxious man, critic to his impulses and pride. Fiction is always best served cold, anyway, like revenge, or lemon meringue pie.

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