the bruise has provenance unknown. the ache too many witnesses. we endeavor toward a home with tradition every christmas. here now confronted with the truth still hidden all the while. there’s nothing more to make it smooth, your edge against their mild. damp fecundity, soggy greenery, clouds aren’t snuggly like you’d hoped. hours driving past wet scenery, hours wondering how we’ll cope. each is easily agitated, each other quick to blame. leave free creatures sovereign, let the babes choose their own names.

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