Is there a better time than the dark, to sit at a desk and scribble? Without a moon or stars. Just frost at the window of the widower's abode. Writing: "Through the looking glass of frosted cataracts Reflecting my past of memories tied in a bow..." Placing my pen back in the well, I stepped to the door. Seeing the night, like never before. Freed from the guilt of her passing. I moved
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