You hold in your hands ten years of my life. Ten summers, ten autumns, ten winters, and ten springs. My life runs in cycles, odd to be sure, but cycles none the less. Some are daily. Tiny little spirals so tightly wound that they resemble a thread of time weaving the days together. I come alive in the twilight. Late night is spent in waking dreams and long conversations with myself. Morning hopefully finds me sleeping, but as often as not, I am doing...
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Poetry