Ten.One Thousand, Three Hundred & Ninety-Five
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The same dream again. I’m listening. I’m listening.
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Someone is already awake.
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It’s already so warm.
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Everyone is an early bird today. I don’t mind it.
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The key is in my bag.
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“I hate days like this,” I say. “Days that run away from me.”
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But the sky and weather and the quiet.
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What is worse? To be thought of as being difficult or to be warned about being perceived as being difficult.
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The time is going by too fast.
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But can I go back to the dream?