the morning has a crisp air to it. i breathe, invite the cold of the breeze into my lungs, feel it rushing through me and i exhale carbon.
discarded thoughts and revelry.
its just me and the words, and the songs of the birds.
ive got a spring in my step, a lightbulb over my head. glowing. always.
when yes means maybe. finding silver since there is no gold.
dopaminergic.
please.
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