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Jess Keefe

After losing my brother to a heroin overdose this past fall, I now have an Inside Out-ish perception of how my brain functions. I imagine my mind stocked with little men in khaki jumpsuits, packing cardboard boxes full of memories away on sky-high metal shelving. They work without speaking, both because they share a cosmic sense of purpose and because let’s face it, it’s boring menial labor that doesn’t require much discussion. They pack...