Soon it will be too late to get the pen, and write again! Would it be the last time I step out the door, to see the world, or will that be gone too? I can’t close my eye in case I see what is not there again. Do I stop moving to find this path I’m walking on is plastic? Is this the air I breathe in my lungs? The sounds I hear, where the noses of the world collapsing in regret, disregard, selfishness, forgiving me? Fred Beav! X
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