I have reason to believe the grass might be a little greener on the other side.
Here it's brown and withered and dead. And everytime the wind blows it gathers up the few remaining survivors and scatters them far from their orgins.
Perhaps I should look for greener pastures.
Maybe somewhere far from this place it is green and awake and bright.
Maybe the wind is light and sweet and caressing and it won't try to push me down.
maybe it's out there
but the winter is deep and dark and mean
and dead
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