92: Once again love ends. Happy it never stays; love’s a vexing weather of manual labor, inside scars. A heightened blush. Far from love talking, American Gothic is under manageable stress, learning to fear the worst. I don’t know, is there one last better state to restage, to live? It depends on you, sleet dashing nowhere like boiled-down jazz, which was formally difficult and, ooops. Someone happy to die is on fire.
No — do we take their place?