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Not sure what's going to happen here. I find myself writing down thoughts and observations, or caught up in my memories of the past - thinking of people, typically family members who have passed, as well as watching wildlife.


And so I share.


She always had a tissue in every pocket and a cup of coffee nearby. I don't know what, but I'm sure it meant something.

Everyday he feeds the squirrels in the quiet of the morning, and thinks about friendships from the past. And cherishes his relationship with the squirrels more.


He examined the creation with amazement and admiration. And thought, "Man. I hate spiders."

"People expect us to be a little different. A little strange," he said to me. 

  "Don't disappoint them."


He walked along the beach talking to the birds, listening to the ocean. It was a good conversation.

She stood there with anger in her eye. And I didn't see love. Yet, I knew it was the fuel behind the emotion. 

Or maybe she was just hungry?


I realized, as he talked about the great things he thought he'd done and the people he knew - he wasn't talking to me. He was impressing himself.

The appearance of wisdom must come from the eyes . . . or maybe it comes from the vision.

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