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I'm in the moment, heavily whipped, freshly kissed, for the first time. But also, I know I'll never get you back. I don't mean get you archives back. I mean, just get you back here, once, sitting down for a coffee so we can talk, maybe somehow recall, however briefly, what it's like to be 12 again. That would be archives nice. Because, although you were the first, you were, more importantly, the last: the last of those dying days archives of youth, the last of the purity, just before the puberty set in and skunked things up and sealed off walls and made hair kink and made the voice change. We were living the life that didn't need alcohol or drugs -- Contrary to what my father thought, the addictions didn't flirt until later, to stem the more powerful addictions of love.
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