I left two Xerox Alto disks — old-fashioned pizza-sized cartridges —
in the basement at work.
One of them had personal e-mail stored on it
starting around the 2nd of February, 1982.
I don't know why I left the disks in the basement;
normally I was cagey about my personal life.
I read two months' worth of hardcopies I've kept in manila envelopes.
Lynn and I wrote twice, sometimes three times a day.
On July 9th, I planned to quit my job within two weeks.
On July 22nd, Tony was evading an outstanding warrant.
On August 17th, I was stuck with security check for the whole basement.
On September 2nd, it was 108 in Pasadena.
We wrote about Emma Bovary and obsession.
About Nabokov's Lolita. And about broken relationships,
forgettable affairs, and dull jobs. We couched secrets in allusion,
since neither of us knew who would be reading over our shoulders.
We wrote 65,000 bytes per week, I told her.
That was on the 19th of August, 1982.
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