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It is Sunday morning. It is raining. I woke up late, so I didn’t go to church. My family went without me, so I am alone. All of the lights are off and I can feel the space where “Breakfast with the Beatles” should be in my ears.
The plane of my living room stretches wide, leaving me alone on the round brown island of loveseat. I stare out blankly, searching for a rescue ship on the distant horizon. My novel lies untouched on the ottoman, a seashell on its own sandbar. I don’t deserve that beauty this morning. Marooned sailors receive no beauty, only salt and sand and stormy seas.
The rain falls without much enthusiasm and rolls down the window apologetically. Sorry for dampening your morning, it says. The couch rises up like a mole-hill into which I press my weary face. I try to make it embrace me, but it is unresponsive. A chill settles over me, drifting in from the foggy sea. This morning I am no more than a castaway on an empty beach.





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