2005-11-17 || 7:42 p.m.

|| the price ||

after all this time, rising like the dead. tweed and two days' worth of five o'clock shadow, short stories of girls dying in train crashes and the microphone rigged to a coat hanger from the ceiling. i am waiting for when he is here in this apartment, situated in the spot that makes us three, the magic number, and we will listen to records and get stupid on grass and have all those lost years wash away, until at least the morning.

i remember his laugh but not his face. all that time consumed by the number three: walking to the corner store to get beer, dancing in the living room when he thought no one was looking.

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