Secrets: I am building a praxinoscope in the bedroom. I’ve stopped feeling the cold. My only friend is a dead author. The number of letters I’ve written & have not yet sent: 17. On Monday evening I packed up my belongings & purchased a one-way ticket to Paris, but I was too cowardly to board the airplane. A lonely winter is a lonely winter is a lonely winter is a lonely winter, no matter the city.
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