Narratively
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1st September 2014
Diving for Dollars
He stands alone at the edge of the Old Bridge, at its center, where the stone arches up like the spine of cat. He is one smooth, straight, skinny line. Then he raises his arms. It is the wingspan of a man whose job isn’t to fly, but to fall.He jumps. It looks more like a pull forward, as if tugged off his perch by an invisible hand. His birdlike shadow slips past the arch of the bridge. Gravity takes over and he hurtles down. About halfway into his descent — a second, if that — he comes back to...