I've been slaving over Theodore Roethke's "I Knew A Woman" and Anne Sexton's "The Touch," creating an essay that explores the way that the differing form between poems makes love seem ambiguous but outside boys keep screaming and banging on guitars. So I decided to walk outside, into the bitter cold and watch these screaming boys. However screaming
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I hear you. I wish the music outside would stop. It's painful to listen to.
If you want to walk and talk and escape people who will only brag about how much they're screwing their lives up, I'll join you.
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