My cynicism grows.
Of many things.
It grows no longer as a toadstool, here today, gone tomorrow.
It grows now as a tree.
Isn’t that sad?
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
Post-note: Never of faith. Never of purpose. Never of love. As long as my
cynicism is of none of these things, I guess my muse and I can survive a few
trees.
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