Age twenty-nine: I was standing by the fourth-story window of my rented flat in Buenos Aires, as I’d been doing for hours on end in recent days and months, staring sullenly at the ocean of sidewalk below, a seeming resting place of final peace with just a slight shift in weight. . .
Buenos Aires sounds to most people like a romantic vacation destination, but to me, it was a place of retreat, a sign on my failure, a last step, at the end of the earth, on the way to the end of my line.
I had taken a wrong turn somewhere in life, and after a long, winding road, I had finally hit a dead end, four stories up in an apartment overlooking the cracked sidewalks of the San Telmo neighborhood of one of the most storied cities in the world, and I was contemplating my final move.
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