Poignant Blurs

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"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Continuation

They walked out of the woods holding hands, blinking against the sun. The forest cover had led to an expectation of twilight, and it was startling to see the light of full day. The sun warmed their exposed skin though and felt just as delicious as the dewy interior had been. They were fulled sated from the day's leisure and walked in easy strides back to his Honda Accord.

There were still a couple of sandwhiches in the cooler in his trunk, which he retrieved along with two cokes. The icy condensation dropped intermittantly on her thigh and rolled down the inner side between her legs as they sat on his closed trunk lid. It was all he could see, they're slow decent, the quivering of the droplet before it fell in the sacred divide. He was was dimly aware that she was talking easily and that he was answering in what must be an acceptable manner because it had not yet broken his reverie. He felt his mind as if in two places at once, both absorbed by her and apart, wanting to be nearer.

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