A Meditation on Culture/Internationalism

Drip. I sigh as I brush my damp hair out of my eyes. Drip. Another sigh. Drip. “Where’s that sound coming from?” My hand moves to my forehead again as I get up from my prone position. A flash of light. The sound of rain pattering violently on tile. “Ah.” I shuffle wearily to the window. “That’s where the drip came from.” “About time,” my mom grumbles in ...
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