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| I sent you this bluebird of the name of Joe with "Happiness" tattooed on his left bicep. (For a bluebird, he was a damn good size.) And all you can say is you think your cat has got him? I tell you the messages aren't getting through. The Golden Gate Bridge is up past its ass in traffic; tankers colliding; singing telegrams out on strike. The machineries of the world are raised in anger. So I am sending out this snail of the name of Fred in a small tricolor sash, so the cat will know him. He will scrawl out "Happiness" in his own slow way. I won't ever stop until the word gets to you. —William Dickey, "Happiness" I'm done being jealous that other people write better. This is totally the same sort of goofy-giddy-awestruck thing I used to aim for. Now I'm just grateful that someone can pull it off. I get to read the shit that I like without the hassle of writing it. Okay, I'm a little jealous — but mostly happy, I swear. Oh, fuck it. Just read the damn poem again. | ||||||
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