The devil clock is ticking.

Sad music and aussie accents. I’m glad I’m leaving. T’hayla’s gotten ahold of me. She lives across the river, vaguely in the beaches, but closer. I called Joseph last night and listened to him wake panicking. I wonder how jealous the girlfriend must be. It’s wet out now, but warm. I’m hoping for lightning tonight, but the light is wrong, the taste of the sky is wrong. It’s like I could lick it and taste baking bread, there’s no spark, only comfort. I’m not on-line long enough to properly reply to letters, but know Michel, I got your comment and I’ve written your number down. Maybe I’ll come out on Monday. I miss Montreal too and it would be a delight to finally pull your hair.

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