To: T.G. at the Lozanni Hotel, Greece, 1993

I wrote you a poem. It's  instead of saying goodbye. Nothing is waiting for me in London, but at least I can get the old job at the hotel again. I ran out of money and I can't seem to find a job here, all the tourists are gone. Summer is nearly over. I can't stay on this roof with you and A. forever. And you'll probably leave soon and go back to Scotland. I think I'll remember you always. Anyway, here's your poem: we were dancing i was simple and brown moving two little naked feet on the big wet floor called life they used to say about me she is crazy

and i was x anna

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