Sometimes I write. In sepia. In quiet secrets. In your stereo. And sometimes I want to share it. And no matter what it is, I can feel it when I blink. With hope, it will be read on trains slicing fields of sunflowers, in rosebushes, on overpasses, in high altitudes, on docks up North, in the backs of closets, on houseboats, and in tree houses. Especially tree houses.
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