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February 7, 2009
This is only a sketch; a tiny scratch on the surface of something. A summer moth heard landing on a summer porch in darkness. A moment too brief to dream in sleep, to question and find meaning in the larger moment. Everything before this landing was timeless, unmarked by marching seconds; untouched by tendril rays of the sun. Now, we lie marked and touched by time wounded from counting the nights and days. Planning for tomorrow and trying to fix yesterday. Shes drifting and has more to say but the words escape her. Its just a sketch; a tiny scratch.