Journal 2-7-22

This land is bare.

Bare and brown.

The death of summer happened some time ago.

Now it is winter.

Cold and blustery February.

Waiting for Saint Patrick’s bells to ring.

The longing for the lusty month of May.

Wanting to see green again.

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The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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