A blustery drizzly day, altogether more fitting for rememberance than a Memorial Day barbecue. Here, where silent contemplation replaces a burger and a beer. At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month. The ones lined up, like the boys marching off to die in the mud for King and Country. For no reason at all.
And then the platinum hair in countermotion on the platform and before I think, I think, Lucinda?
I feel like I look ridiculous. I feel like a child wearing my father’s pants.
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