typeracer

It's four in the morning, the end of December. I'm writing you now just to see if you're better. New York is cold, but I like where I'm living. There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening. I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert. You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record. Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair. She said that you gave it to her that night that you planned to go clear. Did you ever go clear?