Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. And you were the source of it all…I've had hard days, too. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. I have hard days, too.
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