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May 4, 2020
And I dream of the warm valley between your breasts, the river between your thighs, the world of your heart, and I hate that it is now an alien world in another orbit, and it might as well be Mars with its frigid red nothingness, or Venus with its poison acid gasmosphere, and neither of those useless planets do us any good, and I am lost in space, and you are now as remote and alien as the creatures in those fondly yet barely- remembered television programs, and I feel like Dave: old and confused in the anteroom, in 2001.