I’m guiltier than sin and our apartment is a cave of self-incrimination so I get going. It’s summer now and even in Chicago, this arctic prairie curiosity (fucking lunatic Jean Baptiste Point du Sable chose to settle this place, well good for him, he made some moolah) the sun is out, and it’s hot. Hot enough for me to wear my Sade muscle-tee, which I only wear when I’m feeling wiry and which I always hope will buy me a compliment, or at least camaraderie from fellow devotees of luminous songs about love.
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