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 1972

I met a boy in Berkeley who had recently returned from Paris and he was dripping with poetry.  The University of Montana  had recently thrown him out of graduate school for submitting a paper like the one seen here to the left as his Master’s thesis in Philosophy.  I on the other hand fell in love with him.  He scooped ice cream at Baskin Robbins by day and read Lautramont by night.  It turned out ok, though, because now he is a world-renowned printer of ancient manuscripts

I found him on the internet 35 years later – only one of two boyfriends with whom I wanted to re-c0nnect to discover that he was getting married the next week.  So it goes.  I still have not found the other one.  So, I write.