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May 11, 2002
Oh, Emily D. You dashed off, dashed in your poetry. Did you ever? The slanted dance, the backwards glance, the elusive mystical gaze in your secluded little cathedral of death. And wrote such sad little hectic bits and scraps and fed your cats and the children on dangling candy threads. I would’ve come up to your room and made you look me in the eye. Eye to eye to I to I. Made you a subject when I addressed you forthwith, straightforward and moreover, I would have brought you cupcakes to eat in your black little, slanted little attic room-