Always Remember by Rebecca Mott


I want to write about the time in my life when memory was hard to find. I was a time when I lived as if violence was normal. At that time, I handled my life by not handling it. I chose to drink, I try not to sleep, I would not eat healthy food. I had chosen to live reaching out for death.

I had chosen not to see or feel my life. I was only just breathing. I thought I was dead. For then, everything would mean nothing.

Now, I am remembering. All I can see is through a haze. I cannot feel for then, only a coldness in my stomach. Nevertheless, from somewhere, that I am remembering the real.

I know as I am sick in the bathroom.


I had always thought that being abused by my stepdad was enough. I had known fear, I had known pain, I had known confusion. I did not need to know any more. Only, I did not know that life was just one big sick joke.

I do not remember when I was first abused outside of my home. All I can remember is being at a party. I am standing so still. Listening to – “Whore, you’re a fucking whore.”

I don’t care. After all, it was what I was, what I will always be.

I think that this was my first feeling of fear outside of my home. I think I was 12 or 13, I cannot remember. For by that time, I had become a zombie.

I was at my friend’s birthday. The night before, he had stopped being a friend. Now, here, he is an enemy. This cannot matter, it will not matter.

I had known him since I was a baby. Now, at his home, dead in the countryside, I have forgotten how to see.

When I arrived at his home, I was dazzled by how rich everyone was.

In the guest room, I just feel lost, but I always feel lost.

I see him in the room. I don’t mind, he is my friend after all. He is teasing me. He tells me how stupid I am. He tells me that he likes dirty girls.

I think that I am laughing. Only I cannot remember.

He is touching me, he is pulling at my clothes. Saying – “You know you want me.”

I don’t. I feel his hand in my cunt. He is pushing me onto the bed. I feel the familiar pain return. I don’t want this.

I am kicking him away. He is just laughing – “See, I always knew that you were a whore.”

I wanted to scream at him, but my voice froze in my throat. I could not speak. Instead, I acted the good guest.

Looking back, I was in shock. I had never expected I would get abused outside of my home. I had thought that I was in control of my life. I was beginning to realise that I was never safe.

It was the beginning of giving up.

Afterwards, he treated me like a servant. I was expected not to complain. Once on a walk, he push me into a haystack, lying on top of me. I fought him off. Only, as I fought, I felt that I was losing my will.

By the time the party arrived, I did not care. As I was called a whore, I did not care. After all, I did not matter.


As I became a teenager, I lost belief in hope. Instead, I made death my best friend.

I could no longer understand anything. I tried to make sense of my world, but I did not want to live.

I turned to self-destruction.

I had begun to drink in order to die.

As I grew into a teenager, I disappeared into pubs. I drank lager, but I could not taste it.

I would just drink to remind myself what a piece of shit I was. I knew that all I deserved was death and pain.

Now, I look back at my drinking, and I cannot imagine how I stayed alive. I look back at myself, and I don’t want to recognise her. I see a person who lives in order to die. She is not scared, she just accepts pain as being normal. I had decided to lose who I was. I wanted not to feel. Then when things happened to me, it was as if nothing had happened.

In my drinking, my world grows smaller. I wanted to forget everything. Always, pain reminded that I was still alive. I chose to believe that pain was all I deserved.


As I grew into being a teenager, I had lost everything that should of matter to me. I had lost my family, I had lost the habit of going to school, I had lost my love for my cats. I had lost the sense that I really existed.

I knew I had to do everything alone. I knew I would have to invent my own rules. I would run away from home, but I always went back. I thought that I should stop eating, only I didn’t like being hungry. I thought that I should not sleep, only my eyes always shut.

So, all I could do was to cut my arms. I saw the beauty as the blood was flowing.

Remember, how quiet my room is. See I am alone. Sitting so still, holding my knife. I do not remember how it got into my hand. It is just there.

I can feel nothing as I draw the knife across my arm. It feels so right. I feel that I can control this.

I know this the only private thing that I have left.


I had drifted into a world where nothing could matter. I could feel my self-hate creep into my every cell. I wanted so much to stop feeling. I wanted to be as nothing.

I am 14. I do not go to school. Only to be registered.

One day, I am by the teacher’s cars, I am hiding. Then I see someone. I see her eyes. I see her blazing with hate, then quickly going dead. Yes, I see her, as I know that she sees me. We know that we must be friends.

I see that she does not care about anything. We don’t care as we play “Roots”. I, white, tie around my neck, crawling on my hands and knees, I was Kunta Kinte. Her black, stick in hand, playing whipping me, playing my master. No, we did not care, we could not care. We enjoyed shocking our teachers, pulling us apart as we hit each other. We would just run away, screaming –”Fuck you all.”

Yes, she was my friend as we loudly spoke of hating our parents. My friend as we lay on her bed, drinking. My friend as I shown her my cuts. We would just laugh at death.

Yes, we understood each other.

Now I look back, all I see is that I was desperate for some type of love. I needed to be needed. I always knew that she was dangerous. Only, I still thought that I was in control.

We had begun to run away with each other, running into the night.

We did not care for our homes, but we wanted our homes to care for us.

She said – “I know somewhere that is really bad.”

I thought that I knew what bad was. I knew nothing.

She took me to a club. It was around midnight. I saw a short queue of young girls. They all looked as if they were dead. I decided not to look.

I was excited to be going to an adult club, especially as we got in for free. Inside, we got free drinks. We felt great, we were special.

Looking back, I can see how blind I was. I could not see the reality. I did not see that all the girls were underage. I would not see the older men.

I was 14, and I thought that I understood. I thought that I knew everything.

I enjoyed having my drinks brought for me. I thought that I was sophisticated. Only, no man would speak to me. So I imagined that I was in a movie, imagine I was Joan Crawford. I would drink cocktails, I would say one-liners. I thought that I could belong.

Only, I always said nothing.

All I did was to wait. I waited for the music to stop. Then the men would come to me. Then they would take me away. Always there were no words. I just knew to go with them.

As I went, I could feel ice going through my body.

This is a time that is so hard to remember. I always want to blame myself. I don’t know why I stayed in the club. I do not know why I did not run away. I had the dumbness of cattle going towards their own slaughter.

Always we went back to a private flat. Close the door and no one will care. No one will see.

There is a kitchen, a corridor, a bathroom. I can see, but I cannot see. There is always the bedroom.

I knew what to do. I knew to get undressed. All this was normal. I lay naked on the bed, and I knew to wait.

Waiting, for what I thought that I knew.

Always I can remember the closed door. After that, all I see is flashes. All I feel is a sickness. As I want to remember, all I feel is scared.

I can remember that I had a fury all the time.

I can remember thinking that it would be just sex. I knew that I had to lay still, I knew not to feel, then it would be over.

I knew nothing. As I saw their eyes staring into me, I could feel their silence. I did not want, but had, my arms tied. Only then, the sex happened.

I could feel terror. I wanted to forget what happened to me. Only, I always get flashes inside my sickness. I can remember as one man was on top of me, I could see others standing round watching. I can remember that I was choked. I can remember that the pain was everywhere. It was not just inside my cunt.

Mainly, I can remember their contempt. They would never speak to me. All they did was to push into the right position. I never had time to think. All I could do was remember how to breathe.

Afterwards, I was just thrown out onto the street. I knew I was just a piece of rubbish.

Now, I can see slightly more. I can see how many injuries that I had. I imagined that my bleeding was the curse. I know that I was lying to myself. I was just terrified to think anything else. I decided not to see I was bleeding all over. If you don’t see, it is not there. I would see the cuts and bruises all over my body. This could not matter. It must not matter.


I walked through my injuries. I had been thrown out of the flat at three in the morning. All I could was to wait for the sun to rise. I watched people coming home from night shift. I wanted to stay on the streets. It was so calm.

I waited for my friend, she would walk me home. I could not think where she had been.

I just got ready for school.

At that time, I had lost the will to be aware. I wanted to be a ghost. Maybe then, nothing could hurt me. Maybe then, I would stop caring that no one cared.

Sometimes, I would imagine that if my mother saw my injuries, it would force her to care. I would dream that she would stop the world for me. Then she would take me to her heart, saying – “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

I dreamt that everything was fine. That it had never happened.

Always, I would wake. Hearing my mother say – “What did you do to deserve that?”

Until I was 17, I thought that my mother would care. I hoped against hope, that she would see her wounded daughter and save her.

All she did was to ignore me.

I needed her attention. I thought by accepting violence, she would see me. I thought that if I was murdered, then she would be sorry.

I was accepting that I deserved men’s violence. It was my way of being close to death. I learnt to accept their games in strangling me, taking me to the edge of death. Only, to bring me back to life. I learnt to get use to men raping me one after the other. After all, it was all that I deserved.

I thought that as my mum saw me as a slut that was all I was.

I was not even good at that. Often I only got £5, I was cheap. Mostly, I was not paid. I was too confused to notice. Sometimes, I was not paid, because I was knocked unconscious.

What I did not notice, or choose not to notice, was the presence of my friend. Sometimes I heard her chatting with the men. She was laughing with them. This was too confusing. She was never bruised. I never saw her having sex. Finally, I saw her taking a wad of money.

She saw me, and laughed.


I was changing, changing into a person I did not want to know. A person that I grow to hate.

I put my terror deep down into my stomach. I choose to forget that I had a brain. I stopped imaging that I needed love. None of that mattered. I was just a piece of shit. Why else did I live with pain all the time?

I was living by the skin of my teeth. Personally, I have no idea why I am still alive. At that time, I only know that I was alive, because I saw it was morning.

Once when I had taken an overdose, I made myself unconscious for a few days. I was able to touch death. I do not know why I survived, only that somewhere was a fierce will to live.

Somewhere there was a voice saying – “Live, one day you will tell your story.”


Abuse destroys memory. That is all I know. When I do remember, it is all messed up. I remember with doubts that any of it can be real, even knowing that it is the truth.

Abuse destroys emotion. That is all I know. All that is left is an empty shell. Crying, hiding in corners. Anger rises as bile from the pit of my stomach, only to get struck in my throat. I put compassion deep into a grave.

I do not want to remember, I do not want to feel my teenage years. It is a broken time.

I had become a person who walked towards danger. It did not matter, for I would be dead soon.

This time did not matter. It must not matter. Now, I look at my past. I want to see beyond the sickness. I want to see with tears. All I can feel is a coldness. I see that I have survived. I want to miss out this time, and go straight to the end. This would be so easy. I could avoid what I do not wish to see.

Only, I must remember, I must allow myself to feel. For that time belongs to me. All I know is that as I remember, I am learning to rest.

I can remember that I was wandering the streets. I can remember that I used to cut my arms. I did not why I kept cutting, only I could not stop. Anyhow, I had forgotten who I was.


Now I will try to lay down all the abuse that I can remember. Maybe then, I can gain some stillness.

When I do remember, I always I forget my age. All I can feel is other people’s hate all around me. All I knew was that I deserved their hatred.

I can remember that I thought that I could be friends with men. All I found was rape and battering. I taught myself that I was just an object to be used. I was a slut after all. I chose to stop feeling. I watch as their eyes went into me. I would be still as they touched me all over. I forget that they could be friends.

I just know whatever happened could not be stopped. There was nothing that I could do. It did not matter, for now I was nothing.

I became angry that I was still searching for love. I thought that I would find myself a lover. I imagined that I would be brought flowers. I would be taken to the cinema. I would be special. Someone would like talking to me. I would be seen.<

All I knew was to accept violence. I remember that men would fuck me in alleys behind pubs. As they unzipped my trousers, I lost all emotion. They did not ever look at my eyes. I was just a hole where they would leave their sperm. If they did speak, it was to call me names.

I remember a man screwing me in a graveyard. I remember the coldness of the stone. I know the man did not see me. I imagined that I was sinking into the grave. There I could suffocate. All I heard was – “Was that ok?”

I had separated from my cunt. It was nothing to me.

After all, my cunt was betraying me.


I can remember big events, events that can penetrate my brain. What I don’t remember is how I continued to live.

Looking back, I see a person who walks towards death, even as she wanted to live so much.

I heard somewhere – “This is not all there is. Please child, hold on in there.”


I am walking. I think I am walking home. I know I am walking somewhere. I walk down a familiar road from the same old pub. I know the route by heart.

I imagine that the streets are safe. From nowhere, I think that I am ok.

I allow myself to glimpse happiness. If I got scared would it make me vulnerable.

I walk pass the Catholic Church. I see a bunch of skinheads sitting on its walls. I see people avoiding them. I think nothing. I see them spitting. This means nothing to me. I walk straight past.

They see me. They know me, know that I am easy.

They decide to surround me. I don’t think. This is nothing. They push and poke at me. I can hear their words, I can see their laughter. I just imagine that I am safe. I hear – “There’s only one thing to do to dykes.”

For some reason, all I thought of was Anita in “West Side Story”. I thought these things don’t happen. Not with all these people walking round.

I could feel a hand reaching into my cunt. I could hear the skinhead girls screaming at me. All I could feel were their eyes staring into me.

I just lay like a dead fish. I just wanted it to be over.

From nowhere a policeman came. He did not seemed worried, only said – “Calm down, boys. Don’t be so silly.”

I saw the policeman laughing with the skinheads. Nothing must matter.

The policeman turns to me.

“You know, it’s not safe to be out so late at night.”

He lets me walk home alone.


I decided that I would give up on trust. I lived in a world where I made my own rules. Only as I tried to invent my life, I had no idea where to start.

All I know was that I had to change.

Until I had changed, everything went on as always.

I was being betrayed by wanting to be friends with men. Even there, I was caught up with violence. I lose all hope.

I wanted so much to find friendship with a man. I thought that then I would be normal. Maybe then, I would be able to relax.

I thought I could be close to a man. A man I did not fear. A man who I thought of as a joker.

After I sat in shock, I have forgotten how to speak. I just shut it out.

I just shut my eyes. I could not cry. I just felt my body shaking. I must remember how to stay in control.

All I can think is that he had been a good friend for a few years. He had never touched me before. I remembered that I had always felt safe with him. I had allowed myself to be drunk in front of him. After all, I had never felt fear around him. With him, I could imagine that I could trust men.

Here, now, he is just smashing all that. Here, now, he is over me, inside my flat. Here, now, he places me back down in the sewer.

He would not leave. He stayed destroying me for six hours. Still, somehow, I imagine he is still a mate. I needed so much that idea. It was safe. Only as I saw his eyes staring into me, I knew that friendship was gone. I knew not to fight.

But for some reason, my pride got in the way. I kept telling him to go.

He just hit me, hit me so hard, that I hit the wall across the room.

So, I gave up. After all, I still wanted to live.

All I could feel was his hate creeping into each inch of my room. I know that no escape, only there may be an end.

He told to get undressed. I knew to obey him. I knew to stop thinking.

When he was fucking me, all I could hear was him asking what I was scared of. Then he would do that. Sometimes I could hear him speaking to me in the voice of a child. All the time, he was giving pain that I could not have imagined existed. He bit, scratched and ripped at my vagina. I imagine that he was tearing it out. He placed his penis in every hole he could find, including my left ear. He kept me tied up. All the time, he would not stop speaking. He told he was doing aversion therapy, he would take the place of my stepdad. After all, wasn’t he curing me?

As I lay under him, I just try to remember to keep breathing. I try watching trains going pass my window. I imagined that I was fine.

Only, I had stopped breathing. It felt so nice. It was calm, I felt myself floating away. I just look down, seeing someone, seeing me. Seeing a lump of flesh getting fucked. I can see now how it is. I see his penis in my mouth, pillow over my eyes. I see his fist in my cunt. I see it all, only I don’t believe it. I will not believe it. I think I will just die. That would be so easy.

But no, he is pouring his hot breath into my lungs, saying – “Don’t die on me, bitch.”

Even now, I still hate him. I hate that he betrayed me. I hate that he would not allow me to die. I hate that his biggest wish was that I would remember him. I hate that I cannot forget him. All I know, is that I wish him some of my pain.

I know that I should have told someone somewhere. All I know, was that it was my word against his. I felt silence was safer. After all, he told me that if I told, he would just say that I enjoyed violent sex. After all, wasn’t I screwed up after being with my stepdad?

So, I continued as if nothing had happened.


I decided that I was not affected. But I was losing control. I was drinking in order to die. I would only eat junk food, as little as possible. I was throwing myself away.

I try not to close my eyes. If I fall asleep, then I would relax. If I relax, the pain always comes back.

I was living in pubs. When they closed, I would go to men’s houses. There I would let them hate me. Inside their violence, I could forget that I had a brain.

I could not care. Now, for me, being raped was normal. As I got smashed up, I knew that it was all that I deserved.

I would not feel how terrified I was. For wasn’t I strong? Whatever men did to me, I never died. I could not die.

All it was because that I was bad, that was all.

But, for some reason, I could not stop caring. I wanted to die so much. Always, something wild wanted to live. It was always there.

I would hear a child crying – “Please make it stop. I just want it to stop.”


When I was seventeen, I was in a place where I worshipped death. I know that hope was a wasted emotion.

As I reached seventeen, I tried suicide. My mother caught me, and she just laughed, saying – “You can’t even do that properly.”

I was walking headlong into danger. I did not care, I could not care. Pain was all I was. Safety was just a dream.

At that time, I thought that I knew everything. I thought that I was in control. I thought I could handle my pain. After all, I knew that I could stop it any time.

God, I knew so little.

One night, I stay behind in the club, waiting to go home with the DJ. I wanted him. He had a reputation of hating women. I knew that he was the sort of man that I deserved.

I thought I know how he would treat me. Oh, I was so naïve.

I can see it now. Now I see a teenager attempting to make sense of her world. She tries so hard.

I see her whenever I see “street-wise” kids out looking defiant. I can see their fear. I can feel their emptiness. As I see them now, now I can cry.

Then, I could not allow myself to think. I could not feel. All I knew to do was to keep moving.

I allowed him to take me to his flat. He never looked at me. After all, I was a whore. So far, so normal.

In his room, I was fascinated by all his posters. Pictures of women crawling to the camera on their hands and knees. Some were dragged along with chains, some in cages. I thought that I understood.

When he fucked me, it was so hard, so quick. I could hear somewhere that I was screaming. Only, I never made any noise. I could never show that much fear.

But he was hitting me, telling to stop screaming. He threw out of his flat. I had no time to think if I was in pain.

Only, I found that I could not stop bleeding. I just ignored it.

The bleeding went on for days. The pain would not fade. I could hardly walk. I fainted going down the stairs.

As I rose from the fainting, I heard my mum saying that I was faking my illness. I said nothing. Only, let the hate grow.

Somehow, I knew that I was pregnant. Even after taking a test that was negative, I knew. I could feel the being slowly spreading poison into my veins. As the second test came out positive, I thought, there, I don’t always lie.

I do not know how I knew, maybe I thought it was just my luck. All I knew was that there was no way that I could have a baby.

How could I bring a baby into my world? A world where my mother hates me. A world where the baby has no father. How could I tell the baby that its father is a rapist? A world where the baby’s mother will be dead soon.

No, I could not have a baby.

But, I so wanted something that I was mine. I wanted a baby as my private prize.

So I did the right thing. I had an abortion.

No one asked me how I felt about it. So, I carried on as if nothing had happened.

Years later, I cried for my loss. I have always known I was right to have the abortion. Only, then, I thought I would be a mother later.


I knew that to escape my world, I had to reach the bottom. Only by touching hell, could I find that I wanted more. Maybe then, I could find myself.

I went back into the world where I was paid for sex. I knew this world. I thought that I knew myself, I was just an object for sex. I thought I could forget the pain, if I was counting the money.

At the time, having money meant that I was someone. Only, I could never keep hold of the money. I would throw it away, for it was burning into my heart. I was paid a lot, but I would waste it, I never saved. I enjoyed throwing it into the river.

I was drawn to men who debased me. They fitted my image of myself.

I found a punter who enjoyed hurting me. It was a slow suicide. I know he would not run out of ideas of how to hurt me. I did not care, I just took his money. After all, he did pay well over the top. I decided I would be his property.

Every time, he fucked me, I felt like I was dying. But, always I would go back to him. I was addicted.

He would anally abuse me. He would always force it up me. I would never get any warning. Always, he pushed me against a wall, legs together. Often I would faint, I could feel my heart trying to stop. It was ok, I didn’t die.

I stopped the pain by drowning in whisky.

It was my way of committing suicide. As I stood taking the pain, I knew I finally had become nothing. I would go in and out of being conscious, nothing mattered any more. I let him humiliate me. It did not matter. I grew used to him telling me to be quiet, when all I wanted to do was to scream and scream. It did not matter. All this just meant nothing.

Only, my body was always shocked by the pain.

As this went on, I could not just go on. I tried act normal, to act as if nothing was happening.

Once after being with him, I went to a party. I walked across town, ignoring the pain. I ignored the blood in my knickers. I walked, imagining that I could forget. When I got to the party, I danced as if there was no tomorrow.

Only, I sat down. The pain shoot up me, going straight to my heart. I fainted. I had lost control.

There was a panic, when others saw the blood on my chair. I could not understand the fuss, after all, it was not important. Before I could speak, I found that I had been taken to hospital.

I had always been scared of hospitals. I thought I would be locked away for good in there. I was scared that if I was ill I would be vulnerable. I was scared of being scared.

Once there, I was treated as I thought I deserved. The nurse took one look at me, and dismissed me. When she saw my injuries were anal, she said I wasting her time. After all, no one gets torn there unless they want it. I felt as if she saw me for who I was. I did not care that she did not use a painkiller, as she sewed into my bum. She looked into my bag, seeing a wad of cash. Yes, she saw me.

I just wanted to be invisible.

For the first time, the pain was penetrating my deadness. I still made no fuss. Only, inside, my screaming was getting louder and louder. I wanted to cry. Only, I couldn’t.

When I got home, I just lay on my bed.

The next morning, I could not move.


I was paralysed. My body had given up on me. All I could move was my eyes. At first, it meant nothing to me, only it went on for days.

Now I know that my body had had enough, so it closed down. It would stop me from destroying myself. My body had had enough of pain in every cell. Enough of eating junk food. Enough of drowning in alcohol. Enough of knocking back pills in order to stay awake. Enough of the cuts across my arms.

Now, enough was enough.

All I could do was think. As I stared at the ceiling, I was alone.

I knew I could quietly slip into death. That would not matter. It would be nothing.

Only –“Live, damned you, live.”

I decided to live, if only to prove that I could.


This piece of writing was the hardest thing I have done. This is because, this goes back to a time that seemed to have no end.

Only, there was an end.

Now, I looked back with awe and wonder that I came out of that time alive. Now, I look back, and I am deeply proud of the person I was then. I see I was always a fighter. I was never destroyed completely.

They could rape my body, but they could never reach me.

I cannot say that I was a good person then. I don’t care. I survived.

by Rebecca Mott


10 Responses

  1. Much love Rebecca, for your journey into the open x

  2. also sending you much love and healing, nurturing thoughts.
    your writing is unforgettable. you are now, and have always been, a good and beautiful person, i hope you will know it one day soon. xoxo.

  3. Thank you Rebecca for sharing your memories which are now surfacing and for being so brave to tell the truth as it is. So many men and women too prefer such ‘things’ to remain hidden and buried because having to face the truth of many men’s utter callousness and hatred would utterly destroy their ‘safe and secure’ worlds.

    Yes you survived and all I can say is those men who called you those terrible names should look in the mirror and see they are the whores and sluts not you or other women.

  4. […] Remember’ and ‘Sometimes I Can Dream’ by Rebecca Mott Rebecca Mott is an incredibly brave writer, and I am linking to this piece by her so that hopefully ….  As many people as possible should read Rebecca’s writing.  After reading ‘Always […]

  5. Rebecca, you speak for so many whose lives and pain lead them to live in ways other people can’t understand or willfully misunderstand. It hurts to read what you have been through and to know there is a world of men who were happy to hurt you in so many ways. I hope and pray you will have joy in your life from now on and grow to love the beautiful person you are!

  6. […] 8, 2008 by sparklematrix Always Remember by Rebecca Mott at Spinning Sisters I want to write about the time in my life when memory was hard to find. I was a time when I lived […]

  7. oh, rebecca, my heart goes out to you! i read your other piece about your POS step dad also. there is beauty in that you can write about all of this now. let it flow like a river, sister. i will sit here with my tissue box and read every single syllable.

    {{{big hugs}}}

  8. Thank-you everyone. I am so moved and honoured by the response to “Always Remember”.
    One of the ways that I survived my life, was saying to myself that one day I would down everything that had happened. This may of been that I surrounded by books all my life. This may me believe that the written word could be a type of revenge. At the time when I was living with male violence, this was a dream – I could not imagine that I would be alive to write.
    Now, when as I write, I am amazed by the power of the words that go on the page. I am also amazed that it makes so many connections with other women. I have felt so isolated for too much of my life. I am saddened that other women have had similiar experiences – but, I know that if there is a huge strength in speaking out. Love and respect, Rebecca.

  9. With a wrench in my heart I hope and know you will keep spinning.
    And with warmest regards–

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