An evening breeze gently rolls its wake across the early morning sky. What is it that you seek? I ask. It answers, but not a simple query grants its glance. It seeks the morning dew, the warm embrace of flowery golden goodness, the sleepy sullen salutation, a smile, a sliver of a simple sanguine sun.
My canvas in my hands, but not a painter’s brush. I yearn to learn of daring skill and lingering bravado. I seek to grab the sky in only best intensions, yet, a click away, is my impression newly chiseled on mere digits. I grab hold of these new depths, a vast expanse now right before me.
I, a little fish lost in the sea, swim freely now, perhaps in history.
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