The morning is gray. The sun hiding. The apartment is damp, the summer over. The rain cries from the sky, nearby trees in hues of green shake. The street is quiet. Save the ticking of the clock, and the rumbling of my stomach it appears that I am alone. Friday the last one in September. My thoughts are wishy washy. Unclear. Stilted. I am a figurine in a snow globe encased in its cardboard packaging, a Christmas gift unwrapped admired for a moment and then stowed away in the attic.
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