February 2012
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In which I spoil the end of a great short story.
The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold, he noticed, their red glory all over. It occurred to him that all the flowers he had seen in the glass cases that first night must have gone the same way, long before this. It was only one splendid breath they had, in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass; and it was a losing game in the end, it seemed, this revolt...
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Brunch at the Sycamore today
in the Mission. Carnitas Benedictos and bottomless mimosas. Grand.
Go early, though—it gets crazy crowded.
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