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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
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More in The Art of Silence ritualLeaning against the dirty once-white paint
of my old pine door frame a red-handled broom waits to sweep the kitchen floor free of cracker crumbs and the dirt trailed in by the kids before supper last night. After the table is cleared, the plans made for tomorrow, the dishes done, and we've kissed She tells them, don't forget the floor. I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the ceiling This is why I smile. |
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