– – In Montclair, it had seemed as if the memories, of, turning thirty, on my birthday, and my name is Amy B. Barthelowmoe, like the relationships, I earnestly thought were , ones that were quite close to me, as anything, you believe, as a little girl, once,I used to sift through old postcards my mom used to keep after my father died, and, they were not an d possibly, untainted, with the sentimentality, of l.o.v.e.,again,
It’s the tainted love we knew, because of me, and tainted because of songs on the beach I used to listen to, Love the Way You Lie and drove me so very Zealously to look out at the day. And when I went to the beach with some friends and, the one woman whose name was, Ellen Tate, had talked to me, over the phone, while she said to bring your Summer Pot.
Ellen we we sure to introduce her, into our of friends, and if was her own story she started to say over the phone to me; While I had come home, and “It was that, people used to say, I was, one of those people, whenthey used to see, and always seemed like it were, I had been strewn, to be someone who seemed as, being focused only my work, and nothing else,
And that’s all I’d known, so little of warmth, and that it wasn’t so much of this time, I had hoped to at least be friends, with You Amy. As I know you were busy. And that, Ellen Tate, talks to Amy, B, in her bedrooms, so very quietly, about when she was, trying to make friends/
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