Every spring, with the indecisive blow of southern winds and the melting of dews, the opening up of blinds the madness of endorphins, surge of my being bursting forth, the relief from sleepy nights smothering soot at home top and the fear of trespassing terraces leaves with creaking bicycles round the corner. Times of phoenixes that die, die and die... Soar, awake, again in haste and for hearts brimming to lay bare a saga of the newly old before life fits in binaries, again.
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