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Friday, April 30, 2010

The kids don't stand a chance

Slowly. All the little fragments of upset that ruffle our feathers. 
Slowly, they tear us to pieces, pulling our skin off in long strips and drying it out for the winter.
We lose our colours.
We lose our armours.
And we give up.



a direction I seem to assume is forwards, because how am I to know any better? 

Fact one:

I can't, sometimes. So I don't.