That humid New York heat rolls in from the bay, like a tongue, your skin is clammy, it's hard to catch your breath. But the mouse ears are sprouting on the trees outside your window, the world lives, you live, just shed your winter skin and turn on a fan, this is no time for complaining. A new future lies ahead and while you're not sure what it will look like, at last you feel you want to find out.
A little girl waits patiently at the end of your cursor. A young boy has joined her, from another story, another land. You're no end of ideas, no end of tales, when you were seven years old you told your father you wanted to be a writer and he said Yes I think so, it sits in you not like a memory but a corner stone.
It is May now, my dear.
And in May,
in May,
We live.
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