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14 Last year, you were in Italy alone, eating octopus, boiled pink and lovely as a rose. I was home, a woman with a baby carriage in her garage, popsicles in five fruit flavors in the freezer of her fridge, who could, without a thought, have her only male cat fixed. On Friday, you wrote, I am going to Pordenone. For lunch had crustini and porcini. At home, what I ate was shoes, what I drank was raw regret. If that woman continues to go on like that, I said as if someone else was crying, I may have to leave the room. ...

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