"this isn't a letter to you anymore. it's a letter. to no one. to me. a letter to groucho. it's a crinkled letter with a coffee stain on it. it's the last drop of tea in the bottom of the cup that doesn't really have taste but is obligatorily consumed to empty the cup and quench the last bit of thirst. it's the tea dregs. it's the sting in your eyes after crying. it's the wandering mind that distracts me to the point of procrastination."
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