"O little one, My little one, Come with me, Your life is done. Forget the future, Forget the past. Life is over: Breathe your last."

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I went over to see Marina two or three or four times a week. I knew as long as I could see the girl I would be all right…. Soon after, I got a letter from Fay. She and the child were living in a hippie commune in New Mexico. It was a nice place, she said. Marina would be able to breathe there. She enclosed a little drawing the girl had made for me.

— Charles Bukowski