I review old aspirations with calloused hands. They crinkle like yellowed parchment under the press of my laziness and maturity. I could flatten the edges with an oath of public avowance. But why? I crack them open like the moldy walnuts of my youth. Just the same, the insides are black and mealy and worthless. They stain my increasingly weathered fingers with regret. My foolishness is just as overripe.
12:22 p.m. - 2016-10-24
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