Time Passing

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The sweetness of the bygone hour
Is seldom rivaled by any future or any present
In its perfection it is saved, stowed away
A sustaining bit of nourishment for times of suffering.
For weary days hold within them weary hours.
Weary hours fight for length with unprecedented force, a refusal to give way to happier ones.
Days, Weeks can pass that drag on endlessly but leave no memories.
This is not vacation, not boredom, but a sickness, a disease that eats away at Time and its spenders.





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