Ah! waiting -- the prophetic state of half-slitted eyes fixed on the square horizon: the casement propped open in preparation for that sweet honey touched breeze. Come in! Come in! Fill the air and take no prisoners.
There, on the horizon, the sun hovers. Watch how she beckons. She asks us to run away, the sunset drawing every molecule of our being into it. And it's no wonder we wish we could fly.
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