There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons...
When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath

(emily dickinson)

There is, in the wane of the day, some persistent thought opposing the fade of light. Some color, neither blue nor black vying for a vagrant space to fill. The day drone ceases. The night winds yet are still. The strings to an old journal lie limp, as they were left in hand's neglect - a diminutive folio whose thinly pressed leaves carry the paltry scribble of trivialities past. Yet the pages heave with some polysyllabic language, and their breathing is not muffled by the resonating plunge into gelid anonymity. These pages, though pallid, seep with the blue stains of some life, and are bound by their cerulean tattoos to attest as witnesses to its pulse.


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