The moonlight cut through the thin window panes and lit the piece of paper on the small wooden desk. A pencil moved and began to form words.
(ooh, have you heard my theory on pink and fluffy dinosaurs? eh, another story for another time. . .)
Y’ALL, IT SNOWED. Honest to goodness fluffy white flakes of happiness.
Recently, I’ve gotten back into indoor rock climbing. (No, I’m not going to bore you or make you cringe with the “climbing to new heights” analogy *cringes*)
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.Emily Dickinson
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