My food soured.
The August day was no help to me. Furry things danced across my face. I was not smiling. Circles had returned. My bottom lip was dry. Little people danced. lights blinked; getting closer. I saw people laughing awkwardly. Turkeys were being torn apart; and solitude. Children happy with the idea of being the role of castaways another year. I wasn't. Nor a child. Solitude. A table filled with great food that wasn't great tasting and I sat there. Hear the music. It's getting louder. Stronger. Coming closer. Hurting me. Pulling me up to a state called refuge. Hear it. Louder. The music hurts. It stings me. The music sends steel prongs into my front. Nobody knows it. The hurt.
Going out into the cold winds, snow drifting up my leg as we stand there saying cordials. I get in the car, pull away, and cry. It hurts me. God it hurts me so bad.
The puppets dance from the strings. Pretty colors. Nice story. Happy one and sad one, both dancing freely to a harpsichord beat. Maracas shake sandy sound from them. His
RIVER BED 28
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