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I wake up in boxer shorts; read the morning news reports. I brew a pot of coffee; wash the bed bugs off of me. And I find myself in afternoons, cursing all of my old wounds with major chords and minors—the lees of life’s cosigners.
I still keep two pillows on the bed, ‘cause I like to think the sky is blue ahead. I tend to jump, then to fly. I love when pretty girls come by. You are you; and I am I. All we can do is try.