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reader, writer, unregenerate comma-splicer |
I am steeping in San Francisco. Little frayed pieces of my bones and muscles wriggle out along the streets, along the avenues, all the way to the sea.
San Francisco is steeping in me. Streetcars run up and down my spine, dinging their happy idiot bells, and Coit Tower spears out through my heart, a plaster cactus spine that points right at you.