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Yawning bubble
The Dime
wilowisp
There is a stillness in the air around me, one that begs not to be disturbed. I cannot tell if it is a living silence, or a lattice of frost. One could be broken by a scream, the other by a harsh gesture. A dead silence is a hard thing to bury, yet a shattered web of ice is sharp, lost beauty. The vain January sun creeps in through westward windows, reminding me of the sunset, close at hand even now, so soon after noon. The sickly light thrives in this stillness, a paralysis in the rhythm of life. Nothing feels right to do. Except waiting.

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