Friday, December 11, 2009

I have gotten out of bed so many mornings, thrown on so many different versions of myself since January. It's hard to know who was walking out of my front door back then. I know that she wasn't writing. I remember that, and I remember that he was telling me to write and that I was growing tired of listening. Writing, to him, to us, back then, meant nothing if not a name on a page in a dying breed of distraction.

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