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I sleep alone again. I listen to sad indie rock that's as close to country as I get, no twang in the guitar or voice, but the phrase 'my woman' pops up in seven out of twelve songs. I walk around bad parts of town aimlessly, very aware of everyone near me, ready to palm my switchblade, muffling heartache with a game of survival. When it's too cold to walk, I drive the country roads near my hometown, remembering high school. It took me about two weeks to realize I'm better off without you. Yet this mourning period continues. I remember the first few months with you, backlit by the beginning of summer, scented with pot, hot asphalt, and sweat, hearing Phish and the cksh cksh cksh of a hacky sack.