Blog: Night calls

It’s the dead of night, that secret hour when regrets drape themselves in black and tiptoe through my head, holding silent vigil for the losses I cannot and will not indulge. If I were in Tuscaloosa, I would slip on my field jacket and take a pre-dawn walk, the favored recourse of dog-owning insomniacs since man first collared canine. That’s a city habit though. In the rural South, traipsing past people’s houses at 4 a.m. will land you on the wrong side of a shotgun.

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