Lost
Sometimes loss is a garden, nourished by inconsequential things. Today it was a catalog that I wish I could share with her. Pointless.
Autumn is already flowing by. That, and the remains of the year, look like a whole lot of empty.
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Sometimes loss is a garden, nourished by inconsequential things. Today it was a catalog that I wish I could share with her. Pointless.
Autumn is already flowing by. That, and the remains of the year, look like a whole lot of empty.
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