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The Waiting Time Overripe pear in a pool of light casts an oval shadow beneath. Small breezes stir the white curtains like silent puffs of a child's breath. Dust motes drift, as spiraling dreams rising up from deepest sleep. Across the hall, facing the door sits an old man. His wisps of hair lift in the small wind. Eyes open, he floats toward the sunlight, as if entering it may allow him to straighten his bowed back. He lists toward freedom, sailing now on thoughts like loose threads trailing his sleeve, nearly disconnected. Perhaps he'll speak, though not today; for he is free, no longer pinned by hopes or empty solitude. |
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