X feels like the end or beginning of something, he tells me, he’s not sure what. He just wishes it would either end or get on with it, he says, he’s had it with being bounced back and forth like this. It makes him feel wrong, he says, out of step. That’s why I’m so hesitant all the time, he says, and so embarrassed. I’m embarrassed about living like this, in this series of endless endings and false starts. Amateurish, he says, as if no one had ever lived before.

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