A van passed by my house every now and then, and from it flies a newspaper I never read.  The beat up van is piloted by an older woman, and the thrower of the newspaper is, I have to believe, her son.  He is balding, scrawny, and wearing BCGs (birth control glasses in military parlance).  What do I witness when I see these two pass by?  A failure to launch?  Some kind of curious brokenness?  An inability or refusal to fall in step?  Perhaps it is only a mother who won't abandon her child come age, come failure, come what may.

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