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subtly braying.

Crossing on red, the ominous words are echoing: “Where are you in your life?”
Mud is sticking to the soles of my shoes. Should’ve used my boots instead. It had rained a lot these past few days.
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They had cleaned up a piece of land not far from where I live. It used to be marshland. I hope they’re not going to build the place up. They should have left it the way it always had been—savage and unruly.
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There’s a notice: “Don’t feed the horses.” But then one of those beasts is a donkey. Could I feed the donkey? And where am I in my life?
And where is the donkey in its life? It sure is looking a bit under the weather. Keeps sneezing. Or making noises I take for sneezing. It might be something else—it’s been biting dry branches off a small tree. Could be it has indigestion, for all I know. There are two horses, too. They are grazing as horses should be grazing. Thick fresh grass all across the field—I wonder why the donkey is after the dry wood.
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There is a methodist church at the far end of the meadow. I don’t think they have anything to do with the donkey or the horses. I might walk up to it and ask someone: “Where do you think I am in my life?”
But then, I don’t really know what methodists are all about.


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