im reading the novel by janet fitch.
every page is another memory of myself.
i have felt that kind of loss and sorrow and pain.
i read until i cry, and i try not to read any farther, but i can't help it.
i feel like if i can jump into the book and love Astrid i will be healed.
so far there is no healing, only half sticky banages that keep falling off, and a singing voice i used to have purloined by cigarettes and sadness.
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