Swinging in my hammock beneath patches of stars, a cool breeze rushes in from the sea, rolling in a haze of patchy cloud over my head. The stars flit in and out of existence through the swaying palms, unhappy that I won’t come up to play.
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The Wayfaring Stranger
The mostly unedited ramblings of a man who rarely proofreads the chaos of words flowing from his fingertips…
