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Whoever he believed himself to be was coterminous with his performance of who he was.

I wanted to return to my rented jalopy on the town square

Bruno said that transmigration, what some called metempsychosis, wasn’t magic in the degraded sense of taking place outside physical laws or as conjured by people draped in wizards’ cloaks.

My last day there a mistral came up, a cold and violent wind that ripped through Marseille with no consideration for anything not bolted down.

He brought with him congeries of “Dead Heads,”