I'm on my way back to Georgia

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Sitting on Nino's balcony It's past midnight. I hear voices, distant TVs. I see headlights race up the hill on the far side of the river. I read, write, contemplate. I'm reading The Moor's Last Sigh by (Sir) Rushdie. I copy passages that speak to me into my journal: (She) drank her own bitterness and called it sweet, walked in her own desert and called it lush ... If Nino were here there ... Read Full Entry

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