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- I imagine you - who knows if this is true or not - evenings at home with some music playing, Miles Davis, a candle, you're cooking. I imagine you reading a book, a magazine. I imagine you - and this can't be right because you aren't online much at night anymore - on the internet researching your next plan of action, schools, jobs, programs. Being the old man that you can be. Or I imagine you in your toxic lifestyle, sitting at a bar, bullshitting, every night, 5 6 o'clock until the wee early hours, smoking, talking up your latest girl, telling her you'll crack her shell. Smiling, laughing, she makes you laugh. Whatever you might imagine me doing - if you ever do - is probably wrong. I put on a good show for you, didn't I? Always busy, always with something to do, people to meet for dinner and lunch and coffee and drinks, shows to go to. I did that for months, months straight that was me. For months that was me sitting at the bar. Tonight I'm here with some hot chocolate, I ate my two dinners (because otherwise I'd be too hungry), now some free-form cowboy jazz is on the radio. I'm looking up printers on the internet. And the thing I look forward to every day is going to bed. I reinvent the wheel every day. Like it's Groundhogs Day over and over with me, over and over, again and again. Every day I get sick of myself, every day I decide that's it no more, every day I write the end the final chapter. Every day I log off for good. My youngest sister bought me groceries, that's how pathetic I am.
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