I’m sort of sad that this is the last one: maybe I’ll write a postcard from each city I visit? Keep them all and put them with everything else I’ve kept. The copy of Dracula you borrowed that day at the beach, the drawing of Falstaff I stole from your sketchbook, the piece of music you’d been writing that day that you threw away – I can’t read music so I don’t even know what it sounds like – the receipt from the night we went to dinner in London, the letter I wrote you when you left me the first time. I forget what else is in there, but there’s a lot of stuff in that box. The picture you
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