Rupert has been too busy spinning in circles to catch sense of anything that's right.
He has been knocked off of his feet twice now because his sense of gravity is all out of whack.
It's one of those days.
Puddles are everywhere, the rain washed away the snow and replaced it with this mushy green and brown texture that is supposed grass. It's a very ugly thing. Im not sure that the grass likes it either. It's drowning in an abyss of ugly colors and isn't really sure whether to freeze or warm up again.
The air is cold and chilling, the kind that leeks through even the warmest of sweaters but leaves the finest mark of sweat on your skin to make every one of your sweaters not soft but itchy.
It's one of those weeks.
Cars flying past in a line that goes through zigs and zags of city lights. The air heavy of exhaust, wind, and cigarette smoke. The cigarette smoke is not enough. Not enough to calm the wind jumping in every direction. A dimly lit stick wrapped in a fine paper providing dim light just enough for a small conversation.
This is the year of the rabbit, a year to bring peace and restore harmony. A year in which there is peace and leisurely pace.
Will it be one of those years?
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