It was a wet day. The sun was shining. Birds shook off the rain, and chirped to their heart's delight. One song even included several telephone rings.
Atilla gazed at the scene without joy. It was still too wet to go for a walk to the playground. Mum was insistent on that.
He had on his galoshes and play clothes so he could walk in his wet wet garden. Dad had not cut the grass yet, so it was as tall as his knees.
Walking in it was an adventure. He might find a squelchy grapefruit. Or tangelo. Or loquat. Or cat poo.
Winding Back The Hands Of History’s Clock.
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*Holding On To The Present: The moment a political movement arises that
attacks the whole idea of social progress, and announces its intention to
wind bac...
5 days ago
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