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May 10, 2004
The palpable tension in the moments leading up to a thunderstorm. When the world is still, thick with anticipation, the low banks of clouds and muted half-shadows, the humid soil all hold their breath waiting. Nothing dares to stir, not now, not yet – the abandoned morning news is reluctant to scatter, the sky scarcely sighs the slightest of sighs. Everything is a muted grey, the colors draining from leaves, brick fronted brownstones, awnings that dare not flutter their once vibrant greens. Sound is dampened, and the playful shriek of an ignorant child sounds distant, misplaced. Not now, not yet. Wait.