The sky, the moon, the sea, are all on the outskirts of my dream. Sleepy stories in wispy ancient books draw my attention, but I won’t make new foot prints in these environments. I draw a sketch, showing a sliver of each to fill cracks in my hopefulness. Because it is a dream to think that the sea will last forever, and even as the moon still shines in the sky, the earth below will suffer our carelessness.
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The Bag Lady 
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