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February 5, 2008
As the weighted arms of exhaustion grab hold of me tonight, I recall emerging from a familiar fog today amongst old, brick homes. I snatched open the file cabinet and spotted the folder, Tropi-Tan, when the Bryan Adam's songCuts like a Knife resurrected a day working in Clearwater: walking to the gas station in air hot enough for an oven, returning home, finding a potato in the toaster and a river in the backyard. A musty carpet smell and a cracked bedroom door revealed she'd forgotten. In turn, out of what seemed necessity, I'd forgotten all nightlife inhibition.