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Whose woods these are I think I know.

I keep thinking if I wait until the very last second, something wonderful will happen to make up for this year, for this decade. It's less than two hours to twelve, though, and whatever I think is going to happen is not going to happen. It never was. It's time to let go and move on. There are better things ahead, better places and better times, and maybe a chance to begin again. I have to believe that.

Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.


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