O Hamlet! O Holden!

ONE OF THE SPARE JOYS of bohemian pretention is, and perhaps always has been, writing sad poems in the rain, letting each misty drop efface and blur the tortured scribble; pearls of moisture like the very angels’ tears weeping for the world’s slow sadness, pooling and puddling to rinse and run again.

Try doing THAT on an iPhone.

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