The bourbon moves in for the season, early mornings with their cool breeze now despite warm late-night runs along the river, it's a confusing time of year. She writes from the upstate bliss, says it's the last day before the pool closes for the season, is a hundred Sunday scaries stacked on top of each other but if you haven't had a summer you cannot be sad to see it part. The only people putting away their whites tomorrow are the rich folks of the northeast and you haven't owned a loafer in your whole life.
I chose poverty, I chose art and I chose New York and at the end of the
season
I am not sorry.
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