Small pieces made for someone, kept here. Some move, some just hold still. Stay as long as you like.
A rose that blooms, comes apart, and returns. Move closer and it leaves sooner. This is for the past. The future is not written. The future is always new.
Open →Kept scores from the daily word puzzle, pinned up like tickets on a dark green wall, in the order they were played. Some carry a handwritten line. Buena suerte, donde estés.
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