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Wednesday, 28 December 2016. It is a hot day in Sydney. And I am swimming in. I read A Little Life. About twenty-something artists, slumming it in an apartment in Manhattan. And picture novelist Hari Kunzru. In East London, not playing at authenticity. Yet partial to nice raclette. Then I recall summer conversations. With a Sydney undertone, discussing. Debating first homes and investments.

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