it is not a new story, but one told through this voice, this time. . . the voice that strives to hear itself in truest form. . . it is an exercise in muscle, a peeling and a prying away, a pushing through and a purpose of being.
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A room with a view
Moving is a bittersweet transition . . . even when your window faces a brick wall.
As I gather the last of my portable attachments,
a romantic recollection of my most recent refuge [alliteration!!]
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