Watching out the window, at no inspiring sight, dragging his foot — every step a fight. Holding his head — pounding since six, coughing his bread, puking his mix — no done, no dark, no curtains, no stark: the past, comes alive, better now, then the first time around. Remembering what was is sweeter than when the memory was being made. Tons of goodies to bring up, relive, revive. I am not dead, the past keeps me alive!
Gideon Writes 
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