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Monday October 15th 2012    Tim Candler

     The emotional content of interaction between beings had reached impasse between myself and the community of Mockingbirds.  This was, I knew, an aspect of seasonal change, yet every season I have found myself yelling at them to get along with each other, share the Alatus and Privet, indulge the song festival, or at least chase the Blue Jay, whose own preoccupation gives him that sense of one who has a legal standing that is never damaged by slights upon his character, or by wing flapping, or by flying directly at him in rage, or by any such loud cry to arms.

     Then yesterday, as the shades drew nigh, and as I found new ways to fault the world for it's insistence upon an evolutionary trail that has resulted in a vale of sorrow that sees fulfillment in commodities, and has achieved its Solstice in that gymnasium of  wishfulness where I am employed,  I heard a princess hidden in the Wild Rose who was singing to herself in a whisper so sad I knew she too had felt the weight of her incarnation as a Mockingbird.  For supper I had mashed Potato and Onion, with Chard,  and a salty cheese, and I followed it with a couple of medicinal dried Plumbs, which I thought tasted good.  She, I believe, took comfort from the red berries of  Asparagus.

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