Tititl Green lights on and the cradle of the snail.
A trail of gray that will never stain the fabric that was left by the wayside in the attic. Above it, a thousand little feet bare the imprint left tread happy, dancing to the song joy over bitter loneliness.
Avenues of roses and jasmine light over bohemian painter, taking colors of stars and clouds and mixed with the sap of an oak tree planted in the middle of my imaginary city.
From the nearby square, twelve wallflowers swaying in the wind, and an insult of yellow pansies, red, blue and white smiles at the dawn that has been slow in coming.
It's spring, and what matters to me now that we begin Aries and in the southern hemisphere autumn and should be.
It's spring, and if there is not acknowledge the calendar, here are my veins as evidence: the biochemical extraction me, and looks aghast turquoise liquid flows through the needle finally hit the vein. It's SPRING! He shouts my body to science, which insists its skepticism until you have added at least thirty repetitions volunteers witness evidence.
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