Cold grey first of January sky, night’s fresh snow already muddied to a sandy brown, belies the promise born of only hope refashioned from despair; that lives and turns of luck are cyclic to rotation of the earth. That challenges belief and yet inspires by need that man can make his own moon in his world.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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That passage would resonate more with if the A/C were not turned on MAX.