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The first time I met him we exchanged notebooks of poetic prose. I asked him to recite a piece because everyone wants a poetic license. And just like that he breathed in stanzas and his fingers danced. I was still unsure of him but decided that we would write together from that day on. And time began, I started receiving his pieces over the phone, in the mail, and now under my pillow. He was born in Miami and let loose in New York, and caught his fall back home. But he never dropped his pen or tore out the pages in his notebook. He is a film lover stuck in silence with no color, he is a writer whose winter is discontent along canary road, and he sings to songs whose souls have carried on. And they call him Rutz, short for nothing. Wh... read more
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