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the no-color of rain or dust,
not quite true west.
It was strange how some of childhood’s words and ways fell at the wayside and were left behind, while others clamped tight and rode for life, growing the heavier to carry as time passed.
The wind moaned, a witch with cancer in her belly.
Lend me your wings, bird. I’ll spread them and fly on the thermals.
And for all his nostalgia, he felt no self-pity. The world had moved on mercilessly, but his legs were still strong,
