Early in the morning, a giant hand reaches out and paints the sky.
A buzzer goes off, a small hand reaches over and shuts it off.
Feet fall to the ground and shuffle out the door. Too tired to talk, I grunt then mumble incoherently. No translation needed. I scratch my head and try and smooth down my pillow hair to no avail. Happy, I shuffle back in, make coffee and shuffle on back outside to grunt some more at the beautiful view.
View on Technicolor
Thursday, May 23, 2013
With The Stroke Of A Brush
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