Golden leaves under my leather sole, and the gate swings shut. The thunderstorms have traded places with snow as I wander down the path to a place that sounds how old books smell. I hope that I’m not late, but I know that if I am it’s all the better for it. I cough as my lungs struggle with cold air. I quicken my pace, hoping to dance with the path. I know now that I will be late, but that is good and today I refuse to let the world damage my leather soul.
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