Out of Time
It’s a dark age: the age of downturn, despondence, diffidence and mortification. Buzzards are hovering around. The commission has been an absolute letdown. They have been so aloof and inaccessible in the early stages that it’s futile to expect them to direct one to the patrons following the culmination. Moreover, since the commission will end in July, it will take them a few extra months to dispatch the permits. Six months have gone waste. I am in a tight spot. I haven’t moved an inch. How can I find the path that leads to my destination?
It’s a dark age: the age of downturn, despondence, diffidence and mortification. Buzzards are hovering around. The commission has been an absolute letdown. They have been so aloof and inaccessible in the early stages that it’s futile to expect them to direct one to the patrons following the culmination. Moreover, since the commission will end in July, it will take them a few extra months to dispatch the permits. Six months have gone waste. I am in a tight spot. I haven’t moved an inch. How can I find the path that leads to my destination?
Threads
Tinted in white, on a cool morning, the first epistle wended its way through the window, a year ago on this date. In a week it developed into threads and has continually expanded since then.
The threads give me something to look forward to every day. They palliate the downturn unknowingly. They believe in me when I give up on myself. The threads are going strong and have improved in productivity, though, on the whole, the tie may not have room for progress anymore, courtesy preclusion. Regardless of the preclusive circumstances or the possible inertia, I will always look upon it as a quantum of solace and a glimmer of sanguinity in the age of darkness.
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