On Sunday I didn’t have much money. I dried my laundry, worked on projects, cleaned up, watched TV, and read old news. I’d gotten as far as Frank Capra in my transcription of excerpts from the encyclopaedia. I was sure I would be speeding along quicker now that the book was filling up. In my autobiography, Nancy had just lost her virginity and was already initiating sexual adventures. I had all the letters that I wrote to Whitefeather when she was in prison set aside, and in a month or so I planned on putting all the best writing from those into their own book. I planned on looking up Sebastian on Monday to see about getting my song lists back from her. I was almost finished reading “Green City in The Sun.” I was looking forward to my birthday in two days.
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