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In every manner of framing, there is a house. There is a door one must enter through, a door one must shut behind herself in order to leave. In every manner of space, there is an intimate and crucial rivalry between open and close, between time and memory, between myself and yourself. The further we walk together, the further we walk in parallel, that distance between us that wavers, minuscule on some days, and incredibly vast on others, but always and certainly there, that distance persists. The entire sky between us. The entire sky between us.