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2004-01-23 - 3:35 a.m. - for the widows in paradise, for the fatherless in ypsilanti.

i remember you. i remember the way you talked. the way you laughed. the way everything was exciting, always. i see myself now putting every ounce of that laugh and excitement into a book that might never be read by anyone. but it will be written. and it will be finished, and i know i don't come around anymore, much anyway, but i'm not done making myself an idolator to all of my brilliant pasts. all of those nights up all night in restaurants. nights driving around town with geese in our cars. nights getting lost in parks. all of those rooftop nights in bowling green. all of those sneaking into old hotels before they were turned into apartments. all of the fun, but ridiculous ideas always bounced around, that we would water to grow then leave buried in the soil, sunless. all of the clairvoyant crossdressers and goateed swindlers. all of the broken biscuits and ponytailed egyptians that cursed under their breaths. these pasts are miracles to me. everyone.

and everyone of them, although only a handful if that, make physical appearances in this writing project, is a part of the story, the characters, the ideas.

now i need to finish this thing so that i can start building new histories for myself and those i love.

give me a year, i said.

i've got five months left.

xoxo

listen to: sufjan stevens.

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