the day endedlong before the clock admitted it. I sit here now,gathering my thoughtslike dirty laundry—this stained journal,this dim bulb’s piss-yellow light,this bottlethat doesn’t judgehow many timesI pour it. there are dayswhen no familiar facebreaks the monotony—no voice that saysI know youand means it. oh, I’ve got people—somewhere.a sister in Phoenix,a friend in Denver,ghosts who

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