jelly



Whenever the interview subject starts talking about Shakespeare or Dickens, I mentally burn the page.

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Why do I only see cops in my neighbourhood at 6:30 on a Sunday morning? The total number of people around are: me, that bakery guy on his way home and the old lady who gets up to sit on her porch and sing to her fucking cat.

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That's it, August – keep your hands in the air, keep moving towards the door.

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Found three quarters and a saucepan on the sidewalk this morning. I took the quarters.

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Oona, yesterday afternoon, telling me about her new "jelly restaurant".

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In cigar-tin stories today: you can never forget us.

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