I think he’s a loon. IV You might be the reason I love Phil Collins. I was in Tarzan the summer after the present half of your heart gave up on you. Every day, for three weeks, I heard Kala tell this discarded child she’d never abandon him. Every day, for three weeks, I heard your mother, holding your freshly born— and discarded— body in her arms, as her center of gravity moved from her pelvis to you. V I pray for you when I remember. Does God care for you as I ask? Do you have friends? Not like those your loyalty demands you remain with as we wonder if the bullet will hit you this time. Actual friends, who point you to the reality you saw in me, despite its vessel. People who love you more than I did. Than I do.
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