She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. They did not spend most days together. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. " "Funny, about that coat.
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