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273 From the Page to the Pen Letter from Zelda Marjorie Manwaring My darling Scott, I feel so exploded I can barely write, like a gourd not knowing the hand that shakes me, my mind a million seeds. But weren’t we once grand—a Ferris wheel in Paris, spinning ourselves silly. I never loved you more than when you bent over your desk, pen gouging paper, never hated you more— your pen always blackening, always my paper white as dogwood. And though you cried, your relief heavied the air when you left me in this room—where everything is cream-colored rest—no silver shoes, dance floors, gin, or us. I’ve planted a sunflower seed—I give it water from the pitcher on my bed stand. One day its yellow head will be as full as mine. ...

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