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Solitude

Just when I thought it was time to come out of the shower, a flicker of deliberation retarded my movement.

I had begun to worry about the geriatric stanchion masts riposting through the mercury mane.

This might seem of small consequence to those of you who have already come to terms with the nuances of the filter dance, but I would have cause to remind you that such stimuli rarely fall into easy categorization and continue to stress the long silver crescent wear.

So stay with me now as I try to engage the conundrum and sort out the consequences of hiring a premature boutaniere when the temperature drops below 40 degrees. At this stage of the inquiry, I need all the help I can get.