Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Free Association
Thirty-four pounds to lose. Pound sterling. Pound the pavement. Pound cake. Thirty-one pounds to go. Ezra Pound. Dog pound. Dog pound. Ten years ago, my ninety-two-year-old aunt died and left me the farm. I flew out from New York, and organized the town and the incoming shirt-tail relatives for a...
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