When Ocean Vuong spoke of Eduardo Corral's line in a recent interview, moss grows along the tree like applause it clapped, it surged upward in silent ovation, a green thunder rolling slow across bark, each spore a tiny hand raised with wonder. In that instant, the shame I have at times carried about my writing dissolved like mist under sudden sun. For years, writing has come to me the way a child presses his face to the glass of a world that has no ready words.

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