Winter 2025
I'm at my desk by 7:45 or 8 a.m., and I write until early afternoon.
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If every cowboy has a sad song, I’m afraid you are mine to perform.
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It was on a mid-June morning that the stranger first called.
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These sounds for you, verbs of attraction. Matters of tense.
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My imagination has been weak lately, caught in some half-world.
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I hear Tchaikovsky when I close my eyes and pretend I’m flying.
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How can anyone imagine sleep is possible in such a time?
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