I want you to write a little window inside kArA that i can read and marvel over.

It’s the end of all days, the one’s that I know so far that is. From one flicking of the calendar to the next keystroke of my hand, it’s the end of all days. I have this warm snuggle of a feeling in my stomach. It’s not deep, but spreading, growing into my limbs. If I close my eyes, it’s a golden like hot cider. It reminds me of that somethingisgoingtohappen, but with out the deep ache of uncertainty, the possibility that it might be bad. If you peaked into a little window of kArA, a warm breeze would whip around you, as if you had the heater on full blast during the winter with the windows down, little wisps of unseen hair would tickle your face and you would grin inside, but shine a wisdom wink from your eye. It’s the end of all days, the one’s that I know so far that is.

 
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