Ten.One Thousand, Seven Hundred & Forty-Three
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Birdsong. 
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He says he will miss this place, but I know the next place offers its own kind of sanctuary. 
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What am I missing? How can I give it to myself? What expectations need to shift? 
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Bacon and waffles and orange juice. 
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How are they already awake? 
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There is never as much time as you think. 
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If I am not going to be at home, at least I am somewhere beautiful and quiet. 
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We talk to each other, artist to artist. Think about framing, struggle with the fringe on the blanket, wait patiently for the cheese plate, chase the sun. 
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I do seem to get mired down in the details of things. Maybe I would be happier if I didn’t. 
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Long, long, day.