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Barely there It's not your fault. Following the bustle of December like the lonely weeks beyond a funeral. January, a sudden wad of nothing. Discouraged by the lack of sun detached by unkind weather. The holiday's excitement seems a faded, silent masquerade. Thirty-one bedraggled nights slower than the year's remainder. Your bleakness will drive us mad but for the unquestioned promise of spring. |
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