Every Story He Ever CarriedHe was always mid sentence, mid motion, mid becoming. The words beneath him were not decoration but foundation, every story he had ever absorbed, every narrative that had shaped the way he moved through the world. He was made of language as much as anything else, and as he moved forward the edges of him dissolved back into it, as if the story and the man were always the same thing and had simply agreed, for a moment, to look like two. Every Story He