I do not believe in race as such. Race is a fraud. All modern people are the conglomeration of so many ethnic mixtures that no pure race remains.
I was reminded of the Winchester Mystery House, which I’d seen as a child on a trip with my parents. From above, there was the same sort of random conglomeration—peaked roofs connected to flat roofs, shakes and shingles, tarpaper and skylights—and I realized that Frank had constructed his house from the town, connecting the buildings until they made one enormous edifice. “Jesus,” I breathed.
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