The end of February,
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a garbage truck
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is backing up outside my window.
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Four years ago
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my father died,
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that's more than a thousand days.
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Emily is across from me,
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her head cocked like a curious dog.
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She's muttering lines from an upcoming show,
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broken into jazz standards.
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Something about "Baby leaving"
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and "Never coming back."
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Where are you
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in the winter
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when I need some camaraderie?
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I'm disappointed
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about my job.
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It's definitely not what I envisioned.
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Emily is staring out the window,
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the three armed lamp is out one bulb.
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I hear you are travelling around towns I can't pronounce.
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You know, I used to live in them!
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Now I must get some rest.
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All the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness.
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In the februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.
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-----------------
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Letter From Alex
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Teitur |