let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends
past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.
shel.silverstein.
someone sent me flowers. made of paper.
they are pretty much more than beautiful.
i.love.them.
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