The crisp leaves on the trees, singing the song of the night wind. The stars in the sky, holding their same places since our long-forgotten ancestors looked up at them. The women in Haiti, trading sex for food to feed their children. My little boy, warm and snug in his bed, calling to me so he can wrap his arms around my neck.
Sometimes I have trouble fitting all the pieces together, finding the sense in this world of ours.
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