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December 6, 2002
The Roosevelt Hotel is rumored to be haunted.

Tonight I saw a ghost there. Not a sighting of a transparent girl playing in the veranda, but a ghost from somebody else’s past. She sat stiff at her table, like a polished figurine who’d forgotten how to live. Sarah. She seemed to have lost that visceral quality she once possessed when she was a friend by extension, and traded it for some lackluster pattern of life, the kind that’s boxed in by silly ideas shoveled down by eager conformists. Sarah. She’d assimilated to a blanket idea of normalcy. Sarah. Stupid girl.