I play catch up for weeks while a scrolling board of personal investments serves as my backdrop. The static has an ebb and flow that hisses the same as the receding tide. I read in the Wall Street a journal a story about a man in his sixty-somethings. He explains that sorrow is the rust of the soul. But it's regrets that are the oxidation. I carefully snip the article with my eyes, and fold it into my head. Food for thought.
4:24 p.m. - 2016-09-05
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