I came home to four months of nothingness and a room that had been converted into a storage locker. Somewhere beneath the chaos, that was my room, lay my books—240 volumes that had shaped me, challenged me, and nearly broke me in some cases. Dostoevsky's White Nights, which I'd pushed on everyone during my peak fandom phase. The Nassim Taleb books I wouldn’t stop quoting. The Freud books that woul...
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