Friday, 23 October 2015

Mary Krissmus

Snippets. Snippets. All my life is snippets. From here to the grave every bit of it is snippets. Like shards of glass shattered into tidbits. I remember a smattering of fragments, family gatherings that would've been improved by my absence. Specks of every part I wasted, culminating in regrets that I have tasted. But now I'm far too old to remember, and well, it's very nearly my December.

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