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This Bitter Earth
I can no longer write poetry. I can no longer enjoy the streets of the city in which I live. What is living? Breathing? Eating? Sleeping? I do all of those things but never think as I do them.
I had a good, long affair with New York. It was good to me until it wasn’t any longer. I knew something bad would happen to me if I lived in New York long enough and I also knew that when something bad enough happened I would leave.
It’s been a good 5 years. I can’t be happy here anymore but I’ll still keep in touch.
