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The poem on this page is from an old book of poetry I had, I would sometimes write thought fragments on it while riding the bus, no solid dates were written down.
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Very odd dream. It's fading now, I can feel the corners of the images crumble... soon it will only be a hazy memory. The morning is soft. A pinkish orange still bathes the horizon, like the ring that sometimes forms around the bathroom's tub. The tilt of the sun casts a vivid, and thick, shade of orange on everything. Like the dream, this orange hue will be gone soon. The trees this time of year, in the fall, seem to be so full of color. This year also, or maybe I am just noticing, but I like the shades of yellow that cling to the skinny branches. Voices. Sounds. Smells.
My thoughts are interrupted.