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December 7, 2009
Tonight I was contemplative, sliding my thumb under the skin of a small orange. The neighbor's house through the kitchen window was lit up. Strings of icicles surrounded the gutters, illuminating the light blue paint in patches of somber yellow light. From my perspective, the picketed fence in the rear ascended at a slow 25 degree angle toward A2 road, and the roof of the colonial was pitch black--the sky slightly lighter with grey. Parting each segment of fruit created a muted sound of paper being ripped in two. The cold juice within spurting onto my teeth and tongue.