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Three weeks ago I got a letter from a young man on the coast, a tattooist who said that Tiny was a great artist and that I was proof of it. He wanted to take my photo, see the whole gallery. I packed him a box of Tiny’s things, old flash sheets and needles and pages of El Greco, and told him to study those. He called me and said I was better than any museum. I told him that I apologized, that I understood, but really: I am not a museum, not yet, I’m a love letter, a love letter.

In this passage, I can sense the amount of love that Lois has for Tiny. The two of them had so much love for each other, ¬†and they showed it in a way that people usually don’t. Tiny put his heart and soul into all of the tattoos that he put on Lois, and she knew that, so she let him keep doing it until there was no more room. She knew that her mother wouldn’t agree with it, but she still let him tattoo her because she loved Tiny so much more than she loved anything else. Nothing could compare to the power of love that she had for Tiny. This story, just like Lois’ tattoos, is a love letter dedicated to a kind of love that lasts forever through pieces of art, through fragments of memories between two people.

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