Saturday, October 23, 2010



Dear morning,

It makes sense that every day would start this way.

The clarity and peace brought to anxiety.

The wind is blowing a calm breeze through the cracked door.

George is chewing a filthy toy, while I drink pumpkin-vanilla coffee.

The soft buzz of football is in the other room.

I'm wrapped in a warm, cozy sweater.

Everything is still, and perfect.

You're perfect.

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