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It's
four
in
the
morning,
the
end
of
December.
I'm
writing
you
now
just
to
see
if
you're
better.
New
York
is
cold,
but
I
like
where
I'm
living.
There's
music
on
Clinton
Street
all
through
the
evening.
I
hear
that
you're
building
your
little
house
deep
in
the
desert.
You're
living
for
nothing
now,
I
hope
you're
keeping
some
kind
of
record.
Yes,
and
Jane
came
by
with
a
lock
of
your
hair.
She
said
that
you
gave
it
to
her
that
night
that
you
planned
to
go
clear.
Did
you
ever
go
clear?
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