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February 22, 2011
Water drips down in a pattern over the late winter months.  It coats the cement, the pavement, the rocks, making everything slick.  And against my window I can hear it all, hear it embedded within me, echoing in my mind, reverberating through me all, little ripples in the pond that is me.

Weather is a curious thing.  One minute the sun will shine, a warm wind will blow over me, and the next the clouds come rolling in, yet eventually parting.

So, if the dark clouds must part, then let them part gently.