Summer is on it’s way.
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Urban metaphors link long lost lovers in the eternal displacement of it all.
The incredible edible everything is a lighting rod for criticism, as are we in this
400 thread count bed we’ve made for ourselves.
Traveling at speeds of migraine after toothache after heartache (and woe to those of you with heartache), cutting words have reached my ears enough.
To be honest, they’re are some truths better left dead.
To stake a claim in experience is to challenge the thoughts of the unwilling to change. There is no glory land. No eternal grace that has found me.
So I sit, with my thinking stick, and ponder...
"If I were somewhere else, I wouldn’t be myself."
Consecutive chatter meets my apology at least three times a day.
We get it...you’re slow. We’re sorry...catch up.
It gets messy from there (life isn’t an exact science),
With exceptions, and rule bends,
old enemies and good friends.
It’s getting harder to send you messages like this. Isn’t it?
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