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2003-10-23, 4:55 p.m.

approaching the keyboard like an old lover... m'dear... it's been so long... wary... reproachful... angry... surprised? tired. in the most permanent sense of the word... full of poetry unsuitable for eyes... i added up my losses today... lost count somewhere down the road... hey russ. erase me from your page. he might see it. hey russ... i almost died a few weeks ago... i think i'll send you this cryptic fucking mass email... and... of course... adamantly refuse to pick up the phone whenever you call... she x 3 will ignore me. she x 3 will roll over and bury her head in her lover's shoulder... she x 3 will erase all sights, scents, sounds of me. she x 3 will expect me to come fucking running at her slightest notion. she x 3. she x 3. she x 3. i'm counting my losses... packing all the shit that will fit into my pockets and flying like icarus into the sun. she x 3 won't fuck with my phone bills anymore. she x 3 won't fuck with my head anymore. she x 3 won't have contact anymore. she x 3 won't fit into my pockets. she x 3. won't waste my time. perhaps someday i'll become more of the ephemeral enigmatic russ that they remember. right now. i'll simply stay ephemeral. fleeting. flying into the sun. packing up my words. filling up my pockets. i'm quitting the team, coach. what team, russ? the team disbanded before you ever made it on. i'm tapped out. i'm tired. and no. you can't have any fucking more of my words. or my thoughts. or my time. or my glances. or my anything. packin' my shit and movin' to mexico... maybe... hit a slam or two on the way... before i pack that up too.

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