I’d love to say that every evening I fill my mind up with the works of Albert Camus, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and George Orwell. Or that, once the sun sets, obscure folk tales that I’ve painstakingly researched fill the corridors of my mind. But that simply would not be true.
By the time I’ve read to the kids, I’m about to drop. The thought of doing anything …
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