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By Rachel Kesselman The following is an excerpt from a longer work of narrative nonfiction. The Montparnasse Tower is an eyesore. A lone, black rectangle rising from the limestone masterpieces of Haussmann, it looms over Paris like the awkward chaperone of a party. At its base is a nearly abandoned shopping center, its tinted windows unsuccessfully concealing piles of ripped cardboard boxes and old filing folders. A faded cobalt sign at the entrance reads 80 Boutiques in s

By F .C.Zeri Do not to take things for granted. My mother used to warn me. She mostly meant the small family gestures harbouring scripts in their texture: there are people who lay the table, people who clean the kitchen, people who stay up late working or stay up late scribbling rhythms and figures in worn-out notebooks, steering clear of housework. Still, they’ll wake up rested to clean dishes and folded clothes and finished problem sheets neatly packaged into a backpack.