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  • We didn't go to the show. It was right near our hotel, and free. I can't remember why we didn't. We took pictures outside, but didn't go in. It would have been open, if the spray paint on the walls holds any truth.

    That was in August. That wasn't too long ago, darling. I didn't know that it was over when we were here in London, traveling, clinging on to being in love. We were in love then, still. At least we still loved each other. People point out the difference, and I can see why, but I think we were both. We had recovered from the summer shit storm. But maybe used ourselves up in the process.

    You later thought that a piece I wrote about a couple breaking up was about us breaking up. It wasn't. But this one is.

    Or it's a piece about life going on after the break up. What's the story you're telling people these days? I've been saying, “We tried, then we tried harder, and we failed anyway.” But fuck, darling, I fell for you hard, and I am glad that I did. Things were amazing, until they weren't.

    Point is, I am in London again, and went to the free show, and it would have been something we could have shared. Instead, I enjoyed it alone. Instead, I kept it to myself.

    Visitors can take two posters and two postcards. If we were still together, I would have written a postcard to you, about how I missed you, about how I wish you could have seen the entire thing.

    The postcards say “Life is Beautiful.” Some of the paintings said “Love is the answer.”

    Bullshit, I thought, but took several pictures anyway.
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