Sitting at the end of a long dinner table, eating tomato soup and watching the rain.
Why do I always want to write when I'm sitting at a table and looking out a window?
But this table is different, the window is too. My life is different. And I am too.
I wonder if I will feel this way forever, if circumstance will change. Will my mind succeed all this?
A hope comes still and quiet. And I'm dreaming of a different kind of table and a happier window.
And maybe some comfy socks along with some tea.
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