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Kay Francis (b. Katherine Edwina Gibbs)
B. 1.13.1899 Oklahoma City / D. 8.26.1968 New York City

One of those weeks that end and all you can do is wish yourself better luck Monday. But the rented rooms seem as empty of promise as rinds: post-abundant, a serial view of accumulation and spoilage. A wearied search for excuses in frames the same size as the stained spots: I shouldn’t have tried on an empty tank Tuesday; Wednesday I never refilled.
Enter Friday night, clanking, with eye-strain.

One of those nights when the gypsy fortune tellers are out on the town. If they ever stop talking they die: such at least appears to be a behavioral motivation. You wonder, counting the children in tow, if there’s a gathering of clans going on tonight: an election of regional leaders, or some mandatory winter rite of women’s passage.
Enter middle age, ululating, with bangles on scarred arms.

One of those hours, one of those train rides, where everyone looks like somebody you’ve kissed. Even if you’ve been very selective: lips are lips and varieties of tired eyes no more than five. Reflecting in a window seat upon the ones that hurt the worst: She must have been up half the night masturbating again. For someone she’s never seen, she watches.
Enter daydream, dressed for the evening, with cleats.

Consolation Site: Pre-Code

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