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Ode to King Charles III
A poem for the new monarch
The trees groan like Morrissey, the rain comes down and an owl hoots confidentially, knowing something I don’t. Millions will mourn and millions won’t.
I Used to Have Friends. Then They Had Kids.
Editor’s Note: Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles a reader’s existential worry. He wants to hear about what’s ailing, torturing, or nagging you. Submit your lifelong or in-the-moment problems to dearjames@theatlantic.com. Don’t want to miss a single
