Rainfall on the maroon oiled porch – d

I might talk of how the newspapers smell, if I have someone around, while the maroon oiled porch outside takes in all the heavy rain falls descending down the roof. Or I might just slip in a bit down at wherever I am, breathe in and out the feathery warmth. For it’s all that lasts, when you’ve learned to let go of which no longer is yours, even if it was what you once liked the most and with knowing that places have control over people, you see it’s all that lasts, the feathery warmth with every breathing


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