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Paperback Days Sometimes I see you as you once were, lying across the couch, drugstore reading glasses perched on the end of your nose, a paperback war crime in your left hand, mood swing in your right. I like to remember you as you once were, before you became obsessed with the stories, and disenchanted with the ordinary of our lives. If the government wasn't out to get us, my pasta primavera would. Remember those words? I remember when the only thing you used to hit me with was a smile at the end of your paperback day.
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