It's dark outside, and cold. The bed beckons.
"Mr. Man?" she sings from under the covers, as she hears me stand up from the chair.
The dog barks in agreement and comes out into the living room to encourage me, to offer his advice. But I turn away and walk toward the room with the keyboards and the monitors and the spinning disks. He stands silently and watches me leave.
I have one more thing to say. I need to get it out before I collapse under the covers. But it's not about Irises blooming or sunny blue skies. And it's not about birds singing or grass growing. Maybe I should reconsider.
Perhaps not now after all. Not with this bitterness in my mouth. Perhaps I should just let the words sit the other window before I mash the send button. Let them mellow with age. Perhaps I should just follow the dog's advice.
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