I keep trying to call you but all I get is a busy signal.
(It doesn’t help that I’m indecisive in these matters anyway.)
I’ve even considered an emergency breakthrough.
Why do I need so bad to talk to you?
So I sit here in my chair with the front door
wide open
hoping that you will stop by,
but the only thing that comes my way is the
smell of burning oil from a car that has just
parked in the street outside.
September 8, 1992
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