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December 30, 2002
I heard sleet striking the window with that shivery, sliding sound it makes as it runs down the glass, and you sat huddled in your cold truck in the garage, trying to sleep. What a way to fend off the frustration from another fight. I thought you’d left when you didn’t come back inside, but when I saw you still parked there, I ran through all the rooms looking before I came out and convinced you to come back to bed. We’re a dysfunctional duo, a discordant duet, a troubled twosome, you and I.
Is there hope for next year?