Every time fall in New England comes around, I want to leave my house at quarter-to-twelve and drive to yours with blues-soaked radios stuck in every elm along the way. The tipping point of I-am-yours-dom. I am becoming a kind of eighty, ninety, one-hundred year clockwork. But good God, how does the clock work?
Monologue: (2)
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evanfleischer posted this
