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Sinking into silence. Tidying up by tying stones to unsaid thoughts, letting them go. Water
sweet and dark, whirling slowly and creekily, playing around the stones. Already cold.
The glue of connection hard to pry free.
The level of grey can be cranked up, if desired. Just like that. Just do it. To top it off, as it were.
And for a moment you think it will go unnoticed. You tell yourself it will be fine.
Looking out those demented windows, past the flimsy excuse of a curtain. Looking at the trees, not moving.
Looking at the road, not arriving. A thing of beauty, rusted. The wind is not here now.

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