Boston is full of the sagging cold, mist-bled, houses thoughtfully blinking as I stumble and lean. I can tear over particular shades of green or brown-washed shingles
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well, i really want you to write a book. i want you to write a book so i can lug it around in my book bag, crack it open on the bus, let my daughter drool on it, or find it- dog-eared and filled with underlinings, on one of those gray mornings when i wake too early... and so i can write notes in the margins, and dream of having long talks with you over drinks and too many cigarettes.
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too many cigarettes.
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