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subscribeTuesday, August 8
Collaborative writing with Mr. Jeff, and without his knowledge:
The sky was an exhalation of my clear mind, mild and cloudless. It was fifty degrees on this first day of February. The crumpled map of Philadelphia next to me, buried under both irreplaceable old tapes and two weeks of trash, looked to me like the city developers designed it in an opium haze. Sobering up, I am sure they had no energy left to revise their mess. "This city can kill you," I mumbled to myself.
