A Paradise of Old HatsJason Stumpf
Days hummed on like radio. Some rooms aroused alot of high talk, some brought on a whisper. Off in the distance, a speck skyline stood watchful as birds of prey and other birds circled low collecting wind-tossed scraps. There was no agreement in the kitchen, no singing from the little room upstairs. Nights crashed in like waves. Often he would turn around to discover he was missing. Like transmissions over patchwork fields, unstitched and scattering before the gathering flock.
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