'Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.'
- Fitzgerald
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this is the subset of what goes on in my head that is fortunate enough to make the treacherous journey through the nerves in my neck, arms, and hands, down through my fingertips and onto the keyboard, through the wires, the computer, and the network, across the country on fiber optic lines, finding a permanent home in the electric memory of some server in san francisco.
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