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September 8, 2014

It rides along with you, like something just in your periphery, over your left shoulder, that isn’t there when you turn around to confront it. Like a sound that you barely hear, and wonder whether you really hear something, it whispers in your ear. It joins you at the table when you sit down to eat, a presence felt regardless of whether you set a place for it or not. It is a guide of sorts, along a path we would rather not tread. Grief is the seneschal of Death’s house, and the doors it opens are heavy with sorrow.


From → Not Bus Stories

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