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  • It was around 9:23 in the evening, and 43 degrees outside. I couldn't feel the cold beer in my hand anymore, only an odd ache, like I had slapped a table one too many times. I was walking through through the graveyard next to my house.

    I was there because I didn't want to be at home. I didn't want to be at home because I didn't want to think. And I didn't want to think because I didn't want to think about her. As I was walking through the graveyard, I knew damn well that she was about 300 miles away, hanging out in her apartment with a friend she had know for months, and even tried to date at least once, probably more. These are adult lives, and they aren't always nice and neat and clean. There is no John Cusack moment where I get to hold up a stereo over my head playing a song, and somehow that solves things.

    Graveyards are good places to go to not be bothered by anything. It's difficult to see the problems in your life as problems when you are looking at huge stone monuments to someone else's life that don't matter anymore. These pieces of stone tilt at odd angles, some slump over as if they themselves were the dead. This particular graveyard, on the east side of San Antonio's downtown, has about twelve square blocks of tilting stone that run for further than the eye can see, which was just enough for me.
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