Moiræ

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The sun sinks in the west, on last valiant streak of weak orange lights the hilltop, and down the far side of the road. Again a pensive time as the frenetic world changes, yet doesn’t change. Liquid brown eyes watch me from the door, and I muse that only man measures life.

Clotho has spun my beginnings. Lachesis has woven the tapestry of my live, and Atropos stands at the end ready to snip the last thread.

Paradise gleams across the abyss. I am ready.

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