True red, not yet maroon.
Slowly and unwittingly I almost dropped my pen. The air is crisp as the cusp of winter approaches the icey peaks that are visible from our home, I wish I was there now. Instead I must befriend madmen for a living and wonder about the three zeros.
I sighed deeply as the bottom of your page is cut off again. I'm agrivated, but in a way I'm familiar with. The kind that reminds me of you. The sound of water rushing from the place is familiar now, and eased my mind into prose with no goal.
I can't help but think of what you said of the immortality of water, as the fountain pounds what may amount to the purified urine of Christ when you get down to it, and think of it in less vulgar terms as I take my lunch. A lunch I didn't even want, and listen to the yelling hobo with mouth full of smoke under the all important sign:
"NO VALET PARKING ON SUNDAY."
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