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11 what i left out of “Summer of Stationary road Trips” There was another person in the room, an eighteen-year-old guy named Ron. It was so humid—even the rock of crystal meth on the ceramic plate appeared to be sweating, and then, right before our eyes, the rock melted, vanished, was transmogrified into a small, chemical puddle, no bigger than an eyelid, as if our eyes boring into it had contributed to its evaporation, as if the rock could sense the claustrophobia of our want, as if our want was so expansive there was no reason for the rock to exist anymore, then Ron requested a hairdryer and with a surgeon’s focused detachment applied dry heat to the bottom of the plate, and damn, fuck, if the rock didn’t resolidify, right before our eyes. ...

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