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February 12, 2004
The mornings were a sacred part of each day – the dark, shuttered bedroom illuminated only by the harsh glare of the computer monitor; the terry-cloth robe loosely tied about his waist; the occasional flurry of e-mails drifting from across the Atlantic. He sat each day, before venturing out into the chaos and energy of the city and the high-school where he taught, and wrote and read. It was the only time that he would be alone throughout the entire day – for the moment she was asleep on the bed, so peaceful, so beautiful, and he was alone with his words.