Dear So Many Things,
When I read what I wrote you, I see air rushed out. It is as if, I watched the
train and took the breeze, out of town. I get the feeling, with certainty. Soon
you won't anymore, soon you will return the envelopes and I will be left only
your hands. I have accumulated evidence for this. It amounts to, what I saw was
my owned fault. The things we've left there for a while—I don't expect them,
going on what I've seen or where I've looked. Nod twice if you agree. Here's
to hoping we find an apparent glass to raise, recursive and diligent. Here's to
next time: We will be just a little lighter, a lot softer, and one fewer.
Gone With The Wind LITE(tm)
-- by Margaret Mitchell A woman only likes men she can't have and the South gets trashed. Gift of the Magi LITE(tm)
-- by O. Henry A husband and wife forget to register their gift preferences. The Old Man and the Sea LITE(tm)
-- by Ernest Hemingway An old man goes fishing, but doesn't have much luck.
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