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    • Driving West III
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    • No Sleeping Here
    • Only Mom Sleeps at Home Tonight
    • Students Over Security
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    • Party of One

Daughter of the King

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Daughter of the King

Tag Archives: new york

An Open Letter to the Current Owner of My “Heart is Greater than Money Sign” Wallet

05 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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coffee, credit cards, letter, money, morality, new york, NYC, open letter, Starbucks, stolen, wallet

Dear person who has my wallet: Due to the twelve business cards inside bearing my name and email address, my personalized Starbucks card on which you are free to have a drink (on me), and the pretty picture of me on my New York license (though I am not a New Yorker), all your excuses are morally inept. Should you require a reward for the return of my wallet, that can be arranged. The reward for keeping it has already been vanquished with a few phone calls.

Come on dude/dudette, it’s 2012 and I’m oh-so-quick like that. Buy yourself a venti soy something and give it back.

Regards,

Linda Anne Dennison

New Friends

30 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

adulthood, driving, friendships, geography, life, living, moving, new york, NYC, relationships, teens, wine

Making new friends is awkward, touch and go like learning to drive a car as a teen. Already uncomfortable in the skin you’re in, slamming the brake when you know you shouldn’t, but you’re scared, so you do, this is how it goes.

Making new adult friends is this but with coffee, cold from the afternoon, still in hand as a prop. It’s this with wine in plastic cups like Dixie, like the teeth-brushing rinser-outer cups for me and my brother, but see-through and bigger. More room for more wine for the silences.

But I’m new here so making friends is what I’ll have to do, always slamming on the brakes with Dixie cups of wine.

On Literature

16 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

Barnes and Noble, books, downtown, free events, friendship, life, literary event, literature, memories, new york, New York City, November, NYC, past, subway, Umberto Eco, Union Square, urban

With my last wish, I’d turn the clock back just four hours today and wait outside Union Square’s Barnes and Noble with hipsters and literary buffs. I’d wait for Umberto Eco, who I wouldn’t recognize if I had a lunch date with him. Still, I’d wait.

I’m something of a literary buff, you see. Or I at least, I play one in real life. But Eco is one Irish author whose name I turn my head to out of nostalgia, not knowledge.

When we first started talking about books, it could have been dead end conversation. It should have, maybe, been dry analysis over red-marked high school essays. She was, after all, nearly five years my junior. I had almost finished college. She hadn’t started.

But she loved Umberto Eco. We used to drink coffee as if we liked it—I think maybe she did—and browse bookstores, where I still love to get lost. Eco was sometimes stacked in hardback beneath a dark-stain ladder. Name of the Rose or On Literature, a cover I liked for its book spine after book spine, all in browns.

I went to a café and independent bookstore in Soho this evening, trying to made good on a deal to myself to get out and see the literary spots in the city. There was a nonfiction reading nearby which I walked to but couldn’t find. Lots of work this week makes my body scream for rest anyway; came home without too much disappointment. And some writing lodged up to boot. Browsing my internet bookmarks, I saw that the Eco event had transpired in Union Square. He had discussed his new bestseller, The Prague Cemetery. I’d walked up to Union Square on my way home from the café. While Eco was happening. We were so close.

I’ve still never read an Eco book. Almost bought the one with the book spine cover once, but I was feeling cheap and put it back on the wrong shelf. But I had this friend once who would have gone to this discussion had she known. Had she been here. She wouldn’t mind about the lines and the crowds and the fandom that tries to drink away the energy from literary nerds of all ages and stages. Or maybe she would, but all of that fades away for the one unique note of brilliance she might be able to hear Eco utter above the buzz.

I think I’ll buy On Literature.

O on the R Train [full]

08 Tuesday Nov 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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assumption, character, Christian, city, conversation, downtown, homeless, judgment, life, new york, New York City, NYC, subway, train, underground, urban

He and a thin, middle-aged Asian man in a polo shirt were looking to sit at the same time. Both would rest in seats near me when the choosing was done. I could see the decisions being made in the subtle shifting of their eyes. I, myself, had only chosen to sit on account of—earlier—choosing the wrong shoes. To wear, yes. But also to buy and to keep. They hurt my feet; I could feel the blister near my big toe, where I’ll grow a bunion in my old age, like my grandmother did.

The Asian man sat first, two seats from me, leaving the only space on the bench the one next to me. This seat, the other man took, the one whose name I learned shortly after his sitting and also immediately forgot, whether for it’s tribal-slash-ethnic complexities through which it forced my tongue, or my desired separation with the absurd experience that ensued—which, I’m unsure.

It started with an “O” sound.

O asked for the time. No reason not to oblige. He asked if the R train stopped at 9th Avenue. I didn’t know where the train stopped, but was excited about the newly acquired map I carried, so we looked. The R train didn’t stop there. Stopped at 4th Avenue and 9th Street deep in Brooklyn. O seemed fine with that and so, seeing that we were done here, I returned my posture to neutral. I folded my arms over my purse. Sipped my water bottle to chase away the subway stifle. I ended the conversation as I assumed was natural. Politely, of course. Following, of course, all unwritten rules of social interaction. And apart from the deafening drone of the city, enjoyed, of course, the silence between us. Until—

He came again with I’m sorry’s and By the way’s. First about my tattoo—what does it say? Do I know what verse refers to the phrase? And, by the way, am I a Christian? Will I listen to what he has to say—over email, by phone, can he have my number—some day?

The R train came then. No, I said in response, followed by audible ellipses. I’m not from here, I told him.

These cruxes, for me, are difficult crossroads in stranger-conversation. Telling nice people “no”. Folks who seem well-meaning and engaging, who aren’t trying to sell me something, it seems cruel. I feel cruel doing it.

O presses me for contact information and steps in after me onto the traincar.

I survey the car, it’s not full; I’ll be able to slide into a seat. There’s even room for me to walk the length of the car and sit away from O without too much trouble. This is the train that will take me to Wall Street to see my fiancée behind the bar at his fancy restaurant. The track can’t disappear under steel wheels fast enough. All my syllables take ten minutes. I grab a pole and look back at O.

Ma-a-a-aybe—not, I tell him. About the e-mail, I mean. I give not reason. Just let the words be all. He apologizes. Twice. It’s alright, I say. It was nice talking to you.

While I sit facing away from O, after walking the length of the car to find a solitary seat, I sip the last drops in my water bottle and wait for Rector. Not a minute passes—

Excuse me, miss, do I mind if he sits? He’s no good at clues or social conduct, but his mistakes are harmless to me. I acquiesce to more by-the-ways.

Lots of questions, no time for answers. He wants to ask, struggles to listen. Or doesn’t really want to hear. I can’t tell which.

I tell him about the community at Mozart and about teaching high school English. About singing tenor in the choir to Brooklyn Tabernacle arrangements. He likes that. About Tim Keller’s church here in New York and their songwriter’s union. He shares with me what he calls a song, some scratch on a journal page.

And then I ask on innocent ground if he lives around here. Maybe I’ll know the borough. I can look on my map and he can point a finger in the right direction. For this, I was unprepared. He gave no standard signs. Wore a hoodie from a group—maybe a concert or a club. Light blue. Every kind of unthreatening. His greatest crime was annoyance. No smells. No shopping bags. Not until the train creaked and ground to slower speeds at Rector Street, where I would leave, did I notice that he put his notebook into a plastic grocery bag. There were a bunch of books in there. A Bible, I saw, another journal, maybe. The bag was full. It was the only sign.

He’s from Brooklyn, he says first. He was from there some time ago, he then says, something of a correction from the first. He lives on the subways now, at which point the exclamation points take over all creases and crevices of my brain, making any form of logical thought totally impossible. I cannot respond; I’m reasonably sure I was not even in control of my facial responses at this time. He meant to tell me that I was, in fact, sitting in his home at this present time? Huh. I guess I couldn’t blame him for trailing me when I was trying to escape him, then.

I didn’t think of it then, about how complex the system, about how intricate the tunnels, how one swipe gains you access to a seemingly endless labyrinth of corners, crannies, paths, all layers and layers beneath a city of millions of scurrying feet. How, in winter, it’s quite brilliant in ways. There are trains that never stop running. Heating your home for free.

But, in response, in the moment, I was useless to engage, to respond. My stop was here. The doors were opening, I was standing up. I was reviewing our interaction, fooled into thinking he was—what?—like me? There must have been tiny signs to hint at the abnormality of our conversation. Why am I calling it a conversation when I tried to quit talking with him time after time? We weren’t conversing, he was bothering me. Regardless of my efforts at escapism, nothing had made me categorize him as homeless, until he said it without effort. A fluid confession and my reaction, on which everything may have rested. Maybe that’s just it. I should never have categorized him like I do, like we all do, too quickly, quarantining him to a sect I refuse to speak to or sit near. Maybe being bothered by O wasn’t my greatest problem.

1.My Love

17 Wednesday Aug 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

100 words, airport, exercise, http://ibecameashepherd.blogspot.com/, new york, one hundred words, waiting, writing prompt

I stood where the airport spit out beautiful people. In New York, there are only beautiful people and also, today, me.

I stood waiting on the corner where he’d said wait, wondering if coming was best, if any of my daydreams would be burst apart or fashioned together when he drew open the door of a yellow cab. A lip, mine, flushed red from nervous nibbles. A nail, right thumb, pulled clean to the pink bed in fidgets. It’d been two years.

He wore headphones the same around his neck. Still the straps of the old backpack showing. My love.

the clues [2/5]

19 Sunday Jun 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

Berghoff, Buckingham Fountain, Chicago, clues, downtown, engagement, friends, future, Grant Park, Lake Michigan, love, marriage, new york, proposal, relationship, scavenger hunt, surprise, the Loop, travel

the waiting [1/5]

Steve dropped me off at the zoo and handed me a letter from Brad. I recognized his penmanship on the envelope. And the way he spells my name, with two e’s. The zoo was one of our places in the years we shared in Chicago. Steve sent me to the bench, and though he didn’t know where that was, I did. The bench is on Fullerton, west of Cannon, next to a bike path. Unassuming, actually crumbling, splintering at each end. It’s where I waited for Brad to meet me the day we split up, well over two years ago. It’s where Brad sat long after I walked away, unwillingly, thinking it best. I sat on the bench this time, waiting, as my letter instructed me to do, for the next clue.

Would a jogger drop a package with a tag screaming my name? Would a bus pull up with signs affixed to all the windows? I started to feel like someone was watching me. Like there were henchmen in the bushes who knew I was at the bench. Walkie talkies all over Chicago were crackling, Subject is at the bench. Please proceed with clue. Just as my curiosity piqued, my phone started vibrating out of control, asking all sorts of incriminating questions.

Do you remember… when you used to send Brad messages during work from that one computer? —where you first met Brad? —where is the best place in Chicago to get schnitzel? All clues were pointing to the Berghoff, the restaurant where Brad and I met one another. Industry shifts amidst which we fell in love. A few more messages from my dear friends buzzed in, Go there now, pal! There was a twenty for cab fare in the envelope. Brad must have known I would try, frugally, to take a bus.

I stood outside the Berghoff for a while. I didn’t exactly leave this place of employment all candy and roses, a going away party with streamers and balloons falling from the rafters. A blind man climbed out of a cab right in front of the Berghoff marquee. Maybe he has my clue, I thought.

Finally, I ducked inside, slid comfortably into the corner where I learned a large percentage of what I now know about Bradley. Behind that lunch counter computer I cleverly, coyly, sent blinking, unordered tables in paragraphs to my bartender years ago when we shared everything in this city. There was a note slid under the monitor with my name on the front in familiar penmanship. I was out the door with the clue and a bit of Spanish dialogue.

I walked down Adams, turned at Michigan to head into Grant Park, where our stage was on the corner. We used to play a graffiti game in the city. Wrote couplets, little lyric lines that we penned on sticky labels and stuck to newspaper boxes, light posts, parking meters, following riddle-directions to one another’s words. We have fun. The last graffiti was on this stage. A simple summer outdoor amphitheatre. I found the graffiti in the winter, something like “Every song I sing ees for you.” Two e’s, like the way he writes my name. It was so perfect, my musician. But things weren’t working right then, so it felt so bittersweet. This empty stage, winter snow, standing alone, the words his heart meant, all the time we’d spent.

I wasn’t sure how many clues there would be. Brad was somewhere in this city. One of the clues would hold him in its palm. Maybe it would be this stage. It was supposed to be, I find, but this weekend there was Bluesfest in Grant Park. Brad sent a message, a picture of Buckingham Fountain, down the street. Change of plans, go here instead.

I walked up slowly to the fountain. I thought he was near, wasn’t sure whether to look for him or for another clue. When he slid in next to me on the rail, he startled me so that I gasped. The seconds moved in fast-forward, crawling over one another to happen next. They’d been waiting for this for years, too.

Linda, will you be my wife? from down on one knee.

All brides-to-be everywhere, don’t be ashamed on behalf of me. I don’t actually remember what I said. Yes, of course, only yours. I’ve wanted to be your wife for years. I’m confident that right now, today, this Fall, it’s right and healthy and perfect. I want to spend “the next forty years” with you. I could have said any of that. My heart was spilling over with all of it.

Whatever I said made people clap.  A man took a picture. In the end, it would only be a few short months until we would be the Dennisons.

the waiting [1/5]

17 Friday Jun 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

breakfast, Chicago, clues, downtown, engagement, friends, future, love, marriage, new york, proposal, relationship, scavenger hunt, surprise, travel

We have a friend, Christina. We call her Migsy. And, in a sense, from my end, the plot begins with her. It begins back when I had not yet met her in February, when her name stuck in my head as Brad told stories from work. I contacted her, on blind faith, and commissioned her to help me when I surprised Brad with a visit. I liked her immediately. She’s charismatic and charming. Has a reality about her that I was sure would suffocate in a place like Manhattan. Migsy breathes genuine life into an overstimulated city. I can get down with that.

So when she said she was coming to visit me as soon as I moved back to Chicago, my excitement was overflowing. Sticky root beer float all over my knuckles when the ice cream drops in and the glass lip takes to napping. Brimming over.

The morning of Migsy’s arrival, I waited at The West Egg, a breakfast spot in River North near the lakefront. Downtown Chicago. It’s right around the corner from where a friend of mine used to live, where she once saw Kevin Costner eating a tomato. Or something. My eyebrows were raised, my head on a swivel, waiting for Migsy to saunter around the corner, her head high, cheekbones glistening, smiling.

I put our name in, sent her a text message. She was coming, she said. The sweet hostess sat me at a two top, awaiting Migsy. I sent her another message and sipped a cup of coffee with sugar in the raw. Waited just a bit. My heart was filled with excitement and although I had suspected this weekend as a plot of sorts before, while I waited at The West Egg on the eleventh of June, I really thought Migsy was going to walk through that door.

Across the restaurant, instead, was Steve, Brad’s roommate while he lived in Chicago, and dear friend, proofed by incriminating pictures which may or may not include Looney Tunes sweatshirts and suspenders meant for men over sixty. What are friends for? Momentarily, I thought it coincidence, us all having chosen the same restaurant for breakfast on this particular Saturday, as I waited, still, for Migsy’s arrival.

But then, after I stood to give Steve a hug, he sat down at my table with me. In Migsy’s seat, which was odd. Something wasn’t normal.

Steve said Migsy wasn’t coming. And that I should come with him. He didn’t know that, for once, I had already decided what to order. With Brad, it usually takes me dozens of minutes. With my friend Charissa, nothing short of an hour. Instead, I left with Steve. But not after an accusatory, if prideful declaration.

Brad’s here, isn’t he? From New York City. He must have flown when I thought he was at work. Steve’s eyes avoided contact with mine. He laughed. Never answered. My thoughts were in fast forward. This is it! I could hardly wait to see him.

Right Lane: Unless Passing

27 Sunday Feb 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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driving, expressway, freeway, highway, left lane, Michigan, new york, Pennsylvania, potholes, right lane, road rules, traffic, travel, Wilkes-barre

I’m a chronic obeyer of one road rule. Not only one rule, but especially this one rule. I drive in the right lane always—unless passing.

It bothers me when people drive casually, carefree, talking on their phone with no hands on the wheel, in the left lane. That’s not what the left lane is for, in my understanding. The right lane is for all of that. For eating burgers, dripping grease and ketchup and those little onions that look like rice into your lap. For texting your friends paragraph messages and roaming onto the rumble strips and back onto the road. For creating a playlist for your drive during your drive instead of before.

The left lane is only for your temporary occupancy, while passing. Then right back to the right lane, where you belong.

During a long drive East from Michigan, five states in one sun-up, sun-down day, I came across a crucial exception to my hard-and-fast rule about the left lane. Somewhere along I-80, in Pennsylvania, after Youngstown but before Wilkes-barre, I was driving in the right lane, as per usual. My car was being adulterated by the condition of the road.  My tires were screaming for smooth, the cushion in my axles was giving me all it had but still the vibration in my thighs was making my legs itch. I was miles from another car—before or behind—so I [gasp!] shifted to the left lane and drove comfortably, without regret.

This new exception with go to the jury for approval: potholes.

One Love In A City I Don’t [PDT]

02 Wednesday Feb 2011

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

alcohol, bar, Brad Alan Dennison, cocktail lounge, Crif Dogs, dining, East Village, entertainment, hot dogs, life, Manhattan, new york, New York City, NYC, PDT, Please Don't Tell, Prohibition, restaurant, review, speakeasy, telephone booth, the Big Apple, travel, Yesterdog

I don’t have a favorite city, I don’t think. I’ve not been to more than a handful of cities big enough to blink at. But on the list of candidates, you’ll find New York City like you’ll find a contact lens in a swimming pool. As you may remember, I had a few choice words for the notorious Big Apple last time I visited. We’re on speaking terms now, as the East Village offered up an enticing new venue that fit my flavor, but, even still, we try to keep a safe distance.

The business card for my new hotspot is cut from a thick black cardstock. The only writing is in a metallic red, a wayward border on both sides. The logo on the back says PDT with a snake head. The other side, “Please Don’t Tell” with a phone number beneath.

I’ve read reviews that call it pretentious. Folks get mad that they have to call and call back to reserve their spot. We were in the subway when 3 o’clock came and went. Underground without a signal. At this point, PDT was still a surprise for me. It was Brad’s plan; I wasn’t privy to the details, just tugged on his sleeve at eleven minutes after three.

The unknowing was gnawing at my curiosity. We ran up at Columbus Circle to make the call. The reservation line had only been open for minutes and every spot was filled until 11 o’clock at night. Eleven was too late for us, but the only answer was yes.

Call back, claim the reso.

Maybe pretentious is not the word. I find it wise how this mystery place put itself in the business of weeding out those who aren’t persistent.

Just before eleven, we left the train and came around the corner of St. Marks.

Crif Dogs mustn’t be the surprise, I thought to myself, as we walked down a couple steps into the storefront. There were stainless steel countertops, paper hats on the employees, arcade games while you wait and a gaggle of people swarming a wooden accordion door in the corner. It seemed a little like Yesterdog. Popular, unassuming. Still, I wondered about the crowd in the corner. So we waited, I, anxiously.

Inside the accordion door was a phone booth. Room for barely two and a sign that read, Dial 1. A woman answered, tersely. I told her Dennison, at eleven. There were no other doors in the phone booth. The door I’d pushed open and three walls was all. Still, the woman from the phone appeared behind the wall opposite the folding door and invited us into a low-ceilinged room, exposed brick, lights down low.

This was PDT.

It’s an underground cocktail lounge, serving specialty hotdogs from the joint next door, whence we came. With a look from the Prohibition era and a feel that’s the same, we walked covertly through a wall, into 1923, part of the elite in this underground society, two among a small crowd, doers and dolls, talking presumably of business and banking and world affairs.

Everywhere I look, folks are calling PDT one of New York’s hottest speakeasies, surely referring to the borrowed style that we’ve taken from the Prohibition era into the 21st century.

When the ban on alcohol lasted over a decade, these sometimes literally-underground establishments appeared in rundown or sloppy buildings in order to detract attention from those opposed. Inside, illegal alcohol flowed liberally into the morning hours and men and women of the higher walks of society canoodled to their heart’s delight. The decoration was lavish and fancy, leather booths, ornate moldings, and marble counters and floors. Our speakeasies today tend to keep with the theme of secrecy, unassuming entrances and extravagant insides.

PDT, I reckon, fits the bill. They’re known for their cocktails. The waiter, in his sweater vest, slips us a leather-bound menu. Six pages of well-crafted paragraph-long descriptions of the going-ons behind the corner-bar. Everything is handmade back there. The concoctions are original and creative. I wish I’d committed to memory what we’d ordered. I didn’t, but we weren’t disappointed. One was fruity, with a pretty little clove floating around in it. One, a Witch’s Brew of some sort and tasted like cider. Another was chocolate-y and had a raw egg in it. That was the novelty, and Brad’s favorite.

The hot dogs, of course, were a surprise and the world’s greatest anomaly. Everything about this place was undercover, high society, elitist-seeming and fancy. Even the bathroom walls were covered in vain pieces of tiny mirrors. Yet we boldly, chuckling, ordered deep-fried hot dogs, fries and tater tots smothered in cheese and bacon. The food was served on plastic plates, in tin foil. It was so tasty that we switched dogs and ordered again.

Away with shadows and shades of high society, in with hot dogs together with fancy drinks. Away with obvious and open, flashy lights and newspaper ads, in with underground and word-of-mouth. Thank you for a gem in this city that I don’t love.

Wake Up Allison

05 Saturday Jun 2010

Posted by lbcarizona in Uncategorized

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Tags

Chicago, lies, love, lyrics, music, new york, relationship, songwriting

[The first song on this page might give a friendly context.]

It’s a new song, I know.  It’s already passed from the website to the email you sent through my music player and into my headphones.  On repeat.  Your new jam on repeat about your live in humanitarian reason for moving to the East Coast girlfriend because of the cadence of your voice.  Not because of her.  The way you say she’s gotta switch in her swing has me singing about her for hours.  Just that line about the switch.  You say she’s got something and she must.  But it’s you that does. 

It’s bothersome.  These lyrics as lies woven into melodies tapestries with background women singing ooh’s and aah’s inside soundproof studio walls.  The day you laid down these tracks your hockey team played and I already knew but you messaged me anyway.  You’re not supposed to be messaging me.  The girl in the song doesn’t like it.  The girl in the song who was surely with you on this your big day watching through the glass watching you sing about waking up with her about this sweet city life you have together.

You’ve been so busy waking up like so.  So busy with these pop rock beats.  Your blues is gone.  It’s gone in your music and I expect in your winter as well which is all well because I used to worry so about your winters.  Your sound has changed.  It’s alright.  I know you need to be known get found find a band to tour the world.  But she hasn’t always been your girl like you sing before a shadow of how you used to solo.  She’s not what you always wanted loved anticipated.  She became your rescue rescuing you giving you a place to run and go and start all over.

On repeat I’ll start to skip the part where you put your faith in cards and angels because she does.  The doo-wop beat poetry tribute that follows is unique with sounds I could hum all day long but the fiction in your lines is too far from this life we know.  I’m glad your new start over forget the past self help life in the big city is working out.  I am.  I couldn’t ever want anything but the most worked out of situations for you.  I hope the switch in her swing fills your still searching soul and that her cards call for a future of everything I’ve learned that you love and nothing that tears you up inside.  I pray every morning is the morning you wrote this song.

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