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The Lost Weekend

“Love is the hardest thing in the world to write about.  It’s so simple.  You’ve got to catch it through details.  Like the early morning sunlight hitting the grey tin of the rainspout in front of her house.  The ring of the telephone that sounds like Beethoven’s Pastorale.  A letter scribbled on her office stationary that you carry around in your pocket because it smells like all the lilacs in Ohio.”
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