Red Rot

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my own blue nights

I've been looking forward to the year ending. Not Christmas, not New Years, just the year ending. When Joan Didion's husband died she thought he would come back. It was magical thinking. If she kept his shoes, if she held on to his books, things would be different. I keep waiting for the year to end. A dropped ball, a light in the sky, and maybe I'll know how to breathe again.

1:04 a.m. - 2011-12-07

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