my living room has turned into a language center on Thursday nights, populated by poets and anthropologists. usually i don't mind so much, but tomorrow morning i must rise at the unholy hour of 5am for the purposes of delivering tall blondes to airplanes bound for Denver. but all this is besides the point.
the point is that the last time i was at the Denver International Airport the towers still stood, and i was living downtown on a street named after a pyromaniacal Civil War general. one June afternoon, i picked up a dear friend at the terminal and we marveled at its famous fabric roof.
there was one stipulation for his staying.
two days later i dropped him off at the bus station for a bus headed west down Colfax to Salt Lake City and beyond. he told me he was going to San Francisco, but i never heard from him again.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
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