2003-12-21 - 3:40 p.m.

Typing, slept the morning away, in dreams now forgotten, laying there was pleasant, warm, comforting, to get up, such turmoil, such loathesomeness, so I laid and laid there, hours and minutes blurring, consciousness slipping into subconscious and subconsciousness rolling across the unconsciousness, in sweet, such sweet song that only a Sunday morning can have.

petrichor

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