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This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

you could never lose me.

Dear Chicago,
There's always something left to say. I type this, my fingers numb from cold. My fingers hitting random keys whilst I try to spell words correctly. If that happens, then maybe this time, you'll get my note.
Do you remember those fiery nights in front of the fireplace, smoke occasionally sputtering from the fire, the light allowing us to see our work. Papers upon paper, scribbles and notes all in the margins. Creased photographs and glowing red bottles of wine. It's ok. I remember enough for the most of us.
words fell like water...

Sometimes, I don't know where these words come from. Are they like that Ryan Adams song you liked so much...just merely words? Could I be reading more importance to them then it's worth?

Right now, I light my cigarettes from burning candles that are meant to be in churches, prayers said for the dead. But I'm here in my cold, little room. With these candles that burn for endless hours, even while I sleep. A cheap glimmering light that is just *there* when I need it to be. So afraid to sleep, and for it to be another day. It just means it's closer to the time I have to go. And we both know how much I love leaving.
Maybe this time will be different.
Love, Gish

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