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11:32 p.m. - February 09, 2002
my hands tremble all the way to the shower . i'd almost forgotten . his blue eyes are everything anybody ever said they are . magnetic . 'he can see through my skin!' . well, he said the same thing about you, buddy... . fuck this, i thought he was dead . he sent them and i thought immediately what if he's finally gone? . we knew it would happen sooner, he'd go off the deep end . what if, by some power he'd hold even after death, he had him send this, the only concrete proof i'd ever have of his existence . that he might have wanted me to see him now he's gone . (the only time he would) (as it turns out, i'm wrong) . but it wouldn't matter since he'd never know . (fuck irony) . he called them contraband. cryptic, cryptic, can't you ever say anything in plain language? i shrieked at him, tell me, tell me, before i reach through these invisible lines and grasp you around your neck.. . because i thought he was dead. what would he say if he knew? (stay behind bulletproof glass) . nothing he'd have sent himself (FUCK irony) . the pose of wry unimportance, the drunk smile, the splash of tie-dye blankets . those eyes . 'he can see through my skin' . and this is just a photograph..
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