And already she feels like she's under 25 feet of water. Or something denser.
Where's that promised breath of air?
At least
the sun's blaring down still, even as the leaves change and the weather gets cold,
and the boots come out, while the sandals take their leave.
At least
she knows what to expect,
and has no fear about the future.
Fear's the killer. It ain't no minor thing.
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