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May 16, 2002
Dear you, I’m here at this phone booth with only 45 cents left in my sweaty hand and your phone keeps ringing and ringing. The more it rings, the lonelier I feel in the pit of my stomach and know this ache is really the tears forming a reservoir deep down for later when I check into that orangish motel room alone. I don’t think I’d notice the alienating deer paintings or garish bedspread if you were with me. You’d make me laugh and envelop me in our private world and I’d finally tell you what I always wanted to: