Warm nights, falling asleep to the fan and the Classical music program, the loving narration of the voice in the radio. The summer’s sad decline: it comes on fast and goes out slow. You might have 20 left, more or less. Each becomes more familiar and passes more quickly, year over year. It’s hard to stop when the world moves so fast, we’re already onto tomorrow, missing the now because we’re trying to catch it.
You might have 20 left, more or less. It’s hard to love and live, but worth it.
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Categories: death
Bill Pearse 
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