Hair slick on my forehead from sweat, it's tuesday aft and I got nothing, though not for lack of thought. Today we wandered to the Lake, skipping stones, extinguishing our mobile phones, all alone we were; I clambered onto the jutting, broken-bottle danger-stones, waving my arm in a 180 arc, promising everything along the waterline: 'One day, this will all be yours.' Over beyond oceans I'm typing, turquoise tulips for her hair. 'Stay out of the sun, my dear bikini Betty--angels remain pale for a reason...'

Cover up, stay inside and wait, weeks and months for me? I really can't ask you to do that now can I.

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