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I don't Edit anymore." "Why not?" "You can cut too much." Wince. "Eventually, you cut away every part of what you are." The man on my doorstep looked away. His eyes darted over my shoulder to the top of the great iron door, stretching twenty feet above our heads, and then to the glint of the Pacific through the windows behind me. The architectural perfection of my external life. "You've done well," he said, stepping into my house. "Hey!" "You're too comfortable. That's why you don't Edit." I just looked at him. "Help me." "Get out of my house!" "You're not on fastforward," he said. "You aren't in the grasping times. Can't you spend a morning?" "You did this to yourself." He blinked at me. His eyes went cloudy and faraway. He made a tiny noise, not quite a groan or a whine, but something in-between, something that spoke of a deep war being fought. He balled his fists and closed his eyes. "But it wasn't that way," he said. "Not . . . not entirely. Ferri . . . Ferri . . ." "Your wife?" "Daughter. I'm Paolo Tikaram." Unbidden,
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