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Welcome to Prose.
We are a literary speakeasy, a place for writers and readers of all genres, for
sophisticates and degenerates.
Prose
6h ago • 59 reads



HIDDEN

From one of our fine wine writers, here's the honesty for which he is famous in
our halls. And, a belated Happy Birthday, Led!!

Here are the words.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=druzMv3zs94&t=19s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team


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Ledlevee in Poetry & Free Verse
Yesterday • 34 reads



HIDDEN

I can’t love.

My mind is a mess

of twisted thoughts

I’ve shaped over the years

to help me do

what I thought I was supposed to do,

to help me say

what I thought I was supposed to say.

Someone said hi,

I said hi back.

Someone said I love you,

I said I love you back

because I thought

that’s what I was supposed to do.

I always waited

for the woman to climax

because I thought that was

what I was supposed to do.

The polite thing to do.

But my heart

is this sunken hidden thing

I don’t think I have access to

underneath all these thoughts

twisted like a mess of spaghetti,

twisted by my need to fit in,

by my need to attempt

to be human.


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dctezcan
22h ago • 21 reads



ABE AND ANNIE

Abe knocked back three shots before the tension that lived in his back and neck
started to ebb. He was staring into his fourth when someone started playing the
piano. Not a bawdy, good time tune meant to rouse. Not at all. He closed his
eyes, letting the whiskey and the music lull him into a sense of peace that
escaped him most times as he spent all his waking hours working hard to put his
town and state, the newest in the Union, on the map, so to speak. He aimed to
leave a mark in the world.

The music reminded him of when his daughters used to play for him back in Ohio,
after dinner Saturday nights. They were grown now, the two eldest married. It'd
been months since he'd had news of them from his wife Mary. Or any news really.
Not a word. Which, if he were honest, wasn’t a bad thing. Meant she hadn't spent
all his money yet. The mail coach was slow but worked. The telegraph had been
available going on six years, ever since the miners came running, chasing silver
just east of his beloved Carson City - so lack of means was not her problem.

He was, he reckoned.

She was still mourning their son, Charles. Still blaming him for taking her baby
out to the wild west. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you. He would have
been happy to stay in Ohio, make a life. A good life. A safe life. But no, you
could never be satisfied…He shook his head. Not because she was wrong, just to
get her out of it.

He was taking another swallow when a voice began to sing - it was the kind of
voice that makes people believe in God. It was the most beautiful sound he'd
ever heard. It warmed him even more than the whiskey. She sang of home, the
loneliness of separation, and the love of a good woman waiting with open arms
for her man to come home. But it wasn’t the words that moved him. It was the
voice itself. It caressed. Embraced. Soothed.

Eyes on his empty whiskey glass, Abe didn't move until long after the final
note. He should have been thinking of Mary and the big house he needed to build
so she would come make their home in Nevada. He was never going back to Ohio and
she wasn't going to leave all she'd acquired over the years -- or her daughters
for that matter-- to live out of a trunk in a three room house till he had time
to build something bigger, more to her liking.

But he wasn't thinking about Mary. Or building a house. Or his investments. Or
the Nevada State Legislature. Or the newly established Carson City Mint.

He was thinking about when he could hear that voice again.

"Hey, Keep," Abe said to the bartender.

"Another whiskey?"

"Yeah, but I also have a question."

The bartender refilled Abe's glass and took the money Abe lay on the bar top.

"Who was that singing?"

"What rock you been under, Mister? That was Washoe Annie. Everybody 'round these
parts knows Washoe Annie. Or wants to," he guffawed. "If you know what I mean."

Abe was not in the habit of buying female company. He was faithful to Mary,
although it was more out of habit and lack of time than any great sense of
fidelity.

"I'd like an introduction."

The bartender laughed. "You and every cowboy in here. It's not your night,
fella. She already took tonight's lucky bastard up to heaven. Maybe tomorrow,"
he said, walking away to serve up more whiskey to the sorrow-drowning men
bellying up to the bar for another round.

The next night when Annie came downstairs, it was in a new dress delivered just
that evening from the only seamstress in town.

"I didn't order a new dress, Mabel."

"Oh, I know that," Mabel responded, bustling into the room. "Was a man that
bought it. A stranger."

"A man? A stranger?" Annie shut the door but didn't turn around. Her heart had
begun to pound. Wondering. Hoping. She turned as Mabel unwrapped the dress.

"Yes’m. He come in like he owned the place. Asks me if I'd ever made a dress for
you. Of course, I says. Asks me the color of your eyes. Blue like a robin’s egg,
I says. Do you have fabric that color, he says. Just so happens I do, I says.
Can you make this dress before tonight, he says, handing me a picture looks like
someone drew. 'Course I can, I says, but that'll cost you extra. Money's no
concern. Name your price, he says. I named my price and nearly fainted dead away
when he handed it right over. It was more than I get for twenty dresses." Mabel
stopped talking long enough to shake out the dress. "What do you think?"

"What did he look like?" Annie asked, unable to breathe.

Mabel walked over and held the dress up against Annie. "Not like these rundown
cowboys, I'll tell you that. Clearly has more than two nickels to rub together.
Well-made clothes even though they weren't new. Tall fella, stormy gray eyes,
probably on the other side of 50 if I had to guess, but hasn't gone to seed like
a lot of older men with money who eat and drink too much and sit behind a desk
all day. Mostly black hair with a sprinkling of gray, just enough to make him
look distinguished rather than old. Very serious, though. Couldn't make him
smile."

It was him. It had to be him.

She put a hand to her heart, eyes closed and thought maybe, just maybe this once
she had been heard.

"Well, c'mon now, Annie. Take off that dress. We ain't got all night."

Abe was watching from the table closest to the piano. He stood as Annie
descended. Her searching eyes found his admiring ones and she slowed, looking
her fill and letting him do the same. She continued down and made her way to the
table.

"Thank you kindly for the dress, sir.” She took a breath, remembering. “Except
for the piano my daddy gave me that burned in a fire, it is by far the most
beautiful gift I have ever received."

"I assure you, the pleasure of seeing you in it is worth far more than the dress
itself.”

Annie inclined her head in thanks; a blush, quite uncommon for her, colored her
unpowdered cheeks.

“Please,” Abe said, pulling out a chair for her. Once she’d sat, he retook his
seat across from her.

“I don’t want to mislead you, Miss Annie, so I will come straight to the point.
I am a married man. I have been married for 30 years though we have been living
apart for ten while I’ve been out here…building. My son came with me but he was
killed two years back and I am fairly certain Mrs. Curry, my wife, is still
mourning. And angry. And I s’pose even when we lived together, we were just
doing what was expected of us, as people do. I was a man in need of a wife to
take care of me and my home, with whom to raise a family. The babies came. She
raised them. I provided.

“But my passion has always been to build something important. Something to be
remembered long after I’m gone. Mrs. Curry doesn’t understand that. She only
cares about her creature comforts, and I don’t fault her for that. But we don't
comfort each other, seems to me. She never wanted more than the children. I
guess I never wanted more than my work.

“I’m not complaining. We’ve had a good life. I’m just telling you all this so
you can make a decision knowing all the facts."

“A decision? I don’t even know your name.” Annie wasn’t sure what to make of the
man’s little speech, and didn’t know why she bothered asking his name - it’s not
something she usually wanted to know. Why have a name to put to a face she’d
soon have to forget?

“Pardon me, Miss Annie. That was most remiss of me. My name is Abraham Curry,
but you can call me Abe, if it pleases you to do so."

“Well, all right, Abe, I’d like that.”

“As I was saying, I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?”

“Yes. I am not the kind of man to take you upstairs and then go on my way. I
don’t condemn you for making a living, or any man for taking what little joy and
comfort he can get wherever he can get it. But I find I don’t much like to
share.

“Miss Annie, last night, I felt something I’ve never felt before. Not ever. You
gave me a peace I want to feel again. I can’t offer you marriage, but I would
offer you a place by my side in Carson City. I have a little three room house
where I can install a piano for you to play to your heart’s content. I can’t
promise you all my attention and time, I still have duties and businesses that
keep me very busy, but I can promise I will take care of you for as long as I
live. All I ask is that you be mine and mine alone.”

“Abe.” Washoe Annie was near tears. Last evening she had longed for one night
with this man who called to her. For him, a man far beyond her experience, to
choose her. She had never hoped for anything more than a walk up the stairs.

She’d never belonged to any man exclusively. The women who worked the saloon had
taken her in when she was just 12 and had lost her parents and brother in a
fire. There was no family to whom she could turn. At first she just helped keep
the rooms above the bar clean, washed the linen and glasses and such. When they
heard her playing some soulful tune on the old upright one afternoon, they asked
if she could play loud and happy tunes. She made up a few ditties on the spot.
After that, they had her play nights to draw in more cowboys to drink and revel.
Then one night, when she was seventeen and a quiet beauty, a young cowboy with a
pretty face offered her more money than she’d ever had to let him take her
upstairs. She said no for quite a while, still dreaming a good man like her
daddy would come take her away.

Until she didn't.

“Abe.” She repeated. “Perhaps we should go upstairs and make sure this thing
between us isn’t just..I don’t know, wishful thinking. It would be foolhardy for
me to follow you to Carson City where I know no one just to have you abandon me
because we don’t…fit. I don’t fancy trying to start over somewhere new. Life is
not easy for a woman alone.”

“I will never hurt you, Miss Annie.” He thought for a moment. “I will deed you
the house so you will always have a home, and your own money so you need never
work again even should something happen to me.

“How…? You don't even know me.”

“I know everything I need to know. You spoke to me last night. I heard every
word.”

Abe stood. “Miss Annie, I know what I want and it's you.” He paused, looking
into her eyes. “But if it will give you peace of mind,” he reached for her hand,
and led her up the stairs.


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110210
Saturday • 28 reads



RAIN CELEBRATION

I live in a desert.

That's hardly an exaggeration.

It rains so little where I'm from, that I remember each time it has.

Now, rain for you is a minor inconvenience, a slight obstacle on your daily
commute. But, to me, each drop is a gift; every puddle is a blessing. I await
rain like a child awaits presents in December.

But it never rains.

I awake on a brisk, Autumn morning, and with much groaning and stretching, I
emerge from my bed. I peer out the window; more out of habit than anything else.

And I gasp.

I wipe my eyes, and look again, hoping my just-woke-up-gaze was correct. It was.

The unmistakable gray skies, the constant, consistent wind tickling the trees;
it could only mean one thing. Rain.

I sprint out of my room (I never sprint. My friends call me "Slow-Mo") and speed
right past breakfast, which was difficult, but needed to be done. I needed to
feel the rain.

I danced, jumped, and shouted, awaking everyone in a 10-mile radius, but I
didn't care. Everything was a joyous blur, and I didn't notice anything else.

To be fair, it was just a sprinkle, so my euphoria lasts only another couple
minutes. I come to my senses, and for the second time that day, gasp in
disbelief.

I'm not alone.

Everyone, in their bathrobes and pajamas, has come out to celebrate with me.
(Side note- don't ever, EVER, try to see your neighbor in a pink sleep-robe.
You'll never take him seriously again.) It seems as though the whole city has
come to share in one boy's joy.

We laughed and danced for 2 more hours.

I'm just saying- When the skies get gray, and the first drops start to fall,
don't be upset. Come out with the rain, and celebrate with us.


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MeeJong
Monday • 67 reads



DID YOU KNOW

Sometimes

bitterness

can taste like

bubblegum

and scraped knees

Sometimes

love

can look like

the strangest shadow

in a patch of trees

Sometimes

strength

can feel like

shaking arms

and weak knees

Sometimes

truth

can sound like

scalding fires

in thousands of degrees

Sometimes

knowledge

smells like

migrant workers

instead of pedigree

But always

I train my senses

to follow these


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Prose
Monday • 165 reads



KINTSUGI

From a writer with a username dear to us, for obvious reasons, comes a piece of
work also dear to us, for obvious reasons. Here's the feature on the channel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7d6ym0ILIE

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team


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Wolvensense in Nonfiction
Saturday • 43 reads



THE Z MACHINE

I very strongly disagree with the manner in which our pop culture both
misunderstands and then subsequently "misuses" generation names. First to note,
these are not hard and fast categories. It is not like the naming of a
generation comes from either an official need to do so or a traditional
framework that happens according to certain parameters. Every state has a state
bird, every U.S. President has some favorite snack on record, pretty much for
the sake of lightheartedly knowing weird trivia like Ronald Reagan was the jelly
bean president. It's as if to say, "We've tracked it before, therefore it's a
thing we should always track." I’m not against that, but that’s not how it works
with naming generations.

Widely started with Tom Brokaw's book, "The Greatest Generation" giving rise to
that phrase popularly being attached to those who fought in WWII; referring to a
generation by a collective name was neither something we'd traditionally
tracked, nor something that was even a sociological measure. The name of a
generation is basically a meme, repeated enough times that everyone knows the ad
hoc reference. It’s a matter of multiple authors or speakers through multiple
platforms throwing different names against a wall and not even anticipating
which will stick. We treat the names of generations (and even what we might
numerically consider to be half-step generations) as if there is science to it,
as if there’s a cut-off date where one officially begins, and another officially
ends. We treat the act as if there is some sort of official process a body of
similarly aged persons is filtered through to arrive at a factual result. There
is nothing official and almost nothing resultantly factual about it. Sure, it’s
somewhat helpful to collectivize voting blocs by age and, if you do you, you’ll
need a manner in which to refer to them in conversation. But beyond that, the
name of a generation, the span of time it supposedly covers, and the manner in
which we come by a name is all traditionally happenstance by design.

Some of the names that happened to stick (Greatest Generation, Baby Boomers, Me
Generation) generally did so in presumed relation to observable and
pan-applicable commonalities shared by the persons said to be part of that bloc.
Greatest Generation, as a title, was a broad capture, associating folks by who’d
lived in The Great Depression and then fought in that world war. Though broad,
that was an easy one to understand because, globally, no one was untouched by
those two world events.

Flimsily trying to use that touchstone as what makes a generation, the
commonality factor, then we had the narrower commonality of Baby Boomers, people
born in large numbers soon after the war when soldiers returned home and started
families. I mean, I am quite certain that with very few statistical outliers,
all those people had something more in common throughout the longest lives in
recorded history, than the mere timing of their births, perhaps even
predominantly so. While not everyone in that group would have been a greaser or
a rock ‘n’ roll fan or a target for McCarthyism, that generation could have just
as easily been named The Tail Fins Generation or the TV Generation or The
Desegregation Generation. How bizarre the stretch to need to start naming groups
by birth brackets and how much more bizarre the almost accidental stretch for
commonality to reach the name “Baby Boomers?”

I begrudge no one their attempt to add a literary moniker to a group. But the
rest of us have lost the plot. Naming a generation, as is now a new tradition,
carries about as much weight as being born under a given constellation. It’s a
forced preamble. When you hear of a generation by name, your mind would do well
to temporarily rename it in your head to something like The Scorpio generation
before discussing it. Do not draw suppositions from these titles.

In fact, if we put that happenstance design under a microscope, in absence of
the, say, every-digit meaning that goes into something like a social security
number or, say, a system by which we know when the ensuing year will be the Year
of the Monkey; the few “practices” you can conclude that go into naming a
generation are thus:

1) They tend to be based upon a perceived commonality

2) They tend to be named after-the-fact, often by people not part of that
generation

3) While there is an unconscious acceptance of the name, the way there is of a
meme, people belonging to that generation generally do not get to pick and
choose their own group moniker.

4) We call it a whole generation, as if global, but the chosen names tend to be
situationally limited to Americans.

Fast forward to the name that stuck with my generation, Generation X. There are
scant few born later than us who even remotely know that Gen X was the name that
stuck to us as Coupland’s book was trying to follow this oh-so-loose commonality
tradition. We were called Generation X supposedly because there was no, one
single commonality between us. The X was like an unknown in a math equation. In
fact, “Generation X” was an older phrase borrowed from previous generations,
back then meaning disenfranchised youth or alienated teens, a phrase originally
intended to separate out a body of persons from the larger generational bloc;
which, almost ironically, was first applied to the same generation we now call
boomers. Shorthand, “Generation X” as a term was meant for “greasers,” but never
stuck. Decades later, post Me Generation and/or Silent Generation, Coupland’s
version stuck during a period of time when everything out of Hollywood was made
to sound more exciting by use of an “X” (X-Files, American History X, the
origins of Netflix, the film for Malcom X, X-Men, The Matrix, and for those who
get the Stargate meta-reference, “Wormhole X.”). This newer version was a sort
of anti-commonality describing mainly kids of the 70s and 80s as having no, one,
big, shared factor that would define us in distinctive parallel against other
groups, named or unnamed.

So, this is where the misuse and misunderstanding comes in. Gen Y and Gen Z were
then “chosen” to follow Gen X, misinformedly so, as if there had been a Gen D,
Gen E, and Gen F. There were not. The scotoma-adjacent grand explanation for the
appearance of the new terms is a repeated, meme-driven supposition that the
practice is derived from an implied sequencing, like naming this year’s
hurricanes in alphabetical order or sticking decimal points after new releases
of computer applications. Again, this had never been. Such ignores all four, now
frequented, ingredients to how generations take on names: perceived commonality
in the title, not getting to choose your own generational group name, an
American focus, and getting named in some semblance of hindsight. That’s before
we even mention that “Gen Y” and “Gen Z,” likewise, lack much of the “throw it
against a wall and see what sticks” quality, among several options, as had been
the case for others since we’d started the practice.

Gen Y, if there is such a thing, whether referred to that way or alternatively
labelled as millennials, are only passively referenced, without any more meaning
or identity than being in direct shadow of another generation, or in an even
narrower, boomer-like, birth proximity to a specific, but almost numerically
mundane date. They have a date-name that linguistically prescribes everyone born
for about 99 years into a single millennial status, despite the arbitrary and
wildly disparate year brackets assigned them, those generally topping out across
all barely overlapping OPINIONS somewhere in the late 90s. It’s all accidental,
but nonetheless hogwash! The youth of Gen Y and Gen Z deserve better.

Further, the quick-to-stick presumption that there is only sequencing and no
meaning in naming a generation, the precept that gives us “Gen Y” as a term,
effectively erases the once au courant and poignant gravitas of “Gen X.” It is
as if what little identity GenXers would take from that title has been erased
and forgotten. We were on track to be predominantly called The Slacker
Generation, The Latchkey Generation, or the MTV Generation, the lot having to do
with the perceived breakdown in family values and work ethic, all names that we
seemed to accept as we grew up and proved them ironic or wrong. Yet we happily
accepted “Gen X” and its actual meaning as this sort of badge. It was as if the
observation of our collective dissimilarity was an indication that we’d finally
reached a flexion point in American freedoms. We were an unboxable, undefinable,
je ne sais quoi, accepting enough of all peoples that no one trait rose to the
top as widely applicable. It is a name that we continued to proudly embody well
into our adult years. It was a name that simultaneously flipped the script from
previous groups, while coming about under the same accepted conditions.

Now, sequencing it into a small, meaningless enumeration, Gen X is suddenly not
the last fortunate generation to have had deeper meaning in its label, mine even
against a powerful backdrop of disproven prejudgments, but instead the first
generation in our ever-more-passive acceptance of thinking as if we are
machines. Do we need to name generations? No. Nor do we constellations or ships
or songs. But there is this inherent marginalization that comes from ascribing a
namelessness to any person or any group. And when that namelessness has the
absent-minded power to look back from a forced void and thrust that emptiness
onto other people, ideas, and mainstays, it’s not just a misunderstanding…it’s a
revisionist history, a poorly applied presentism that seeks to define the past
in terms of today, including the baseline premise that today’s definition is
zero sum. This is not the act of being misinformed as much as it is the black
hole equivalent of what it takes to remain uninformed.

My 16-year-old, born in 2007, and my 11-year-old in 2012, have a full-out
argument about once every four months as to whether or not they belong to the
same generation, always followed by the conclusion that they do not, and the
ensuing, unavoidable “why my generation is better than yours” debate in anger.
They are only four-and-a-half years apart. And it’s no wonder when they are
pulling their evidences from varied teachers, citing varied look-ups, all with
sporadic assignments of year brackets and pop confusion about which name might
belong where on a timeline. Plus, there’s all the misapplications of similar
look-ups across YouTube voices and TikTok videos. “Why” never comes into it.

Is it not more useful to append those new labels and instead talk about the
possibility of a Pandemic Generation, tracing their collective gap in education
and/or income out into the results of seasoned adult lives? How about the
Generation of Political Divide, the slews upon droves of children in the
millions raised during the most politically divisive and longest sustained 50/50
split in our governance in history? I could list a hundred possibilities, none
of which changes who an individual is, what they face, or how they overcome. The
point is that the blind and uninformed acceptance of a non-existent system
yielding meaningless names, works against anything that would allow an
applicable name to stick; works against that last bastion of passive, unilateral
agreement that is everybody looking up from a book or paper or a broadcast or
even an Instagram post and silently nodding to themselves, saying, “Yeah, yeah,
that’s us.” One cannot hope to use a benign placeholder, now, and expect
something better will automatically arrive to supplant it in the collective
psyche. In a world where no 18-year-old can be provided the impetus to
cross-reference beyond scanning the first couple sentences in each of the first
two Google hits, the placeholder is their answer, their truth, their go-to, even
when they do not know what the heck they are talking about. People have formed a
comfortable, cognitive dissonance from their informational sources that
functions much the same way that we’ve overwhelmingly distanced ourselves from
our food sources. Using the term "Gen Z" is little different from ordering
something from a menu that just says, "Meat."

Generations are strange, as we view them, collecting folks together in groups
not by their true time on this Earth, but ultimately by their first twenty
years. That’s quite the narrow gap in which to debate a shared start date and
end date, particularly when there is disagreement. Then sometimes we skew the
results around some linchpin commonality the way redistricting can either
positively solidify voting blocs or disenfranchise them with an arbitrary line
down the middle. The best thing we can do is to stop referring to present and
future generations by letters and numbers and systems, and instead let them
craft the umbrellas that will hang over all their heads until a decent, studied
hindsight can identify what color that umbrella should be.


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Challenge
The Comforter
(: Comfort someone who doesn't feel well in a micro poem. Fifty words or less.
Best decided by most hearts, no need to tag, unless you want to, I will comment.
Thank you in advance :)
novixx in Micropoetry
Monday • 20 reads



WINTER WARMTH

A natural rouge stains your cheeks,

is it from the kiss of my winter?

Or the kisses that never were?

Your heartaches from my apathetic splinter,

I apologize.

My skin is cold,

but my blood runs warm,

my heart beats rapid

Remember I love you, no matter what is told.


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hana_v in Poetry & Free Verse
Monday • 18 reads



SOLDIER, POET, KING

╔════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╗

I sway my blade to avenge the lost,

the land our people brought to life.

For their mistakes, I paid the cost

the day I found the strength to write.

Now I wander through past and time,

with words I cure the ones who frown.

Their doleful eyes were lit by rhyme

the day I found the golden crown.

My castle shines with light and glory.

I lead my people on their own accord.

Remember my life and its wonderful story..

The day I found the mighty sword.

╚════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ════╝


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Sahax in Poetry & Free Verse
Saturday • 59 reads



WHEN MY GOOD FRIEND, SORROW, COMES FOR TEA.

When Sorrow comes to visit, he doesn’t take off his shoes. Dragging and tracking
mud from outside to every room in the house. He doesn't even pretend to wipe his
feet at the welcome mat before entering. With each visit, his clothes become
shabbier and his hands filthier. He always announces and apologizes that he
can’t stay for long, he has others to visit. I always suggest water, but he
prefers tea. Taking longer to prepare and prolonging his stay. We always listen
to Etta while the tea is being made. I’m not ever sure when he’ll leave, some
visits are more extended than others. No matter how long the stay, you can
always tell he was here. The longer he stays, the more dirt and mud build up on
the floor. The more smudges and streaks upon the wall. Even long after he’s gone
and I’ve polished the floorboards and purified the walls, there’s still stains
that he left behind. Forget-me-nots proving he was once here. Before he goes,
he'll turn to me and say I should be grateful I’ve only got to scrub mud from
the floors and trail a rag against the walls. If he were to take off his shoes,
it would be far more mess to clean.


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