Brutus
By Anon Part of my training in journalism was being taught to keep a journal of my daily experiences and thoughts. The content of each incident was supposedly less critical than any reflections you might make later about these experiences. This is one such narrative. My widowed father died when I was twenty-eight, a year ago now. He left me his townhouse and the general estate. It gave me a vehicle and a posh place to stay for that summer
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