*strokes hair* Yeah. It is. Sun's streaming in the windows here and I'm staring at an open document, imagining the smell of coffee with chicory in a bright clean kitchen, alfafa on the breezes and the whinnies of the weanlings in the front paddock.
It's like the light itself carries the weight of memory, and I want to go back to the horse farm in rural Ohio so bad I can taste the winter wheat.
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It's like the light itself carries the weight of memory, and I want to go back to the horse farm in rural Ohio so bad I can taste the winter wheat.
*sighs softly* That probably didn't help, huh?
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I know exactly what you mean about staring at open documents. *sigh* I've been doing that all morning.
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