I count the days until the groundhog comes, even though I do
not believe we will get a reprieve from winter, seeing his shadow or not, we
repeating everything over and over until we make things perfect when we could
not do so during our first round. We must endure the torture winter inflicts,
helpless to make it stop. We have no information to give, northing the
inquisition wished to get from us, our lives dictated by fate, not fortune,
waiting for when the cold leaves so we can breathe again,, this need for love so
acute at times like this when all we have to cling to his a memory of what once
was, and even then, an unreliable recollection as we repeat what we did, and
can’t stop.
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