Sanguine, the crickets chirp away on the other side of the
asphalt. A car swishes by, the distant hiss of its wheels rising, then fading.
And the low murmur of deep male voices drifts in through the crack beneath the
door.
Semesters come and semesters go. Friendships come and
friendships go. Faces swim in an endless soup, and the malicious chef keeps on
stirring. As they drop beneath the surface of the broth, more bob up to replace
them. But how can you truly know a face that can be swept away in an instant?
Bring back the villages. Please.
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