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With the return of balance comes anger. This is unsurprising. And also the understanding of what uptipped things: dumb hopes. Having trodden levelly through several gray years expecting only a grayer future, I slipped up and fell. Silly hopes bit my lip and drew hot live red. Copper taste piqued my present. The might be was suddenly not so much more of the same. Picturebook spreads flew through my head. The glimpse was as fleeting as it was heartstarting. It fled, leaving waste and vapors, smells from dying candles. Dissolving, hope runs thickly in the joints. We call that despair. Gray again, the future furls. And then there’s this certain anger. Sure.

Categories: Asides.

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