It is Friday night in S.F., and I am tired beyond reason. There is much to tell, but it will have to wait. I can barely hold myself upright. The sun is finally setting a blood orange over the bay at my back as I write this. Pretty women and their boys fill the streets and lobbies dressed for the night's outing. I look like what I am. And so I take myself to bed. I hope I can remember what to tell you in the morning. Until then. . . .
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