The Demoread
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The Demoread


200628 | On a neighbour’s death, and a glimpse of his partner in the after.

Hello from the ravine, awaiting the waxwings’ arrival. A man walks along the shaded path. “I want peace,” he says, on the phone. “You can have them until Sunday. That’s a concession. Don’t you want peace? ” His voice is simmering.




A weekly letter on art, music, books, teaching, writing, and the ravine behind my house. Delivered Sundays.

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E.E. Demore

E.E. Demore

Educator and essayist.

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