Bits from the work.
It brought her back to that swirling, cathartic time she spent the night in the tent in Leigh’s backyard. It was raving, spitting rain that took its last wind of ravage on the little tent that could. All seven goons had left except for her and her quite possibly narcoleptic friend, Clare. The tent had all but completely collapsed; the roof balancing on an invisible tightrope an inch above her face. And with Clare swooning in her dormant unconscious, she felt completely alone. It was swollen heat, selfishly adapting to every nook and cranny of her personal space in the tent. At any given moment, the storm fighting and letting down on the tent’s emaciated coat above her, she felt like she could die. It was so awkward, yet realistic: it was the one sincere moment in her life she could keep, think back on, and remember as a time she had survived within her thoughts.
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