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Bright flashes of un-illumination spark against the night like memories, and through the cricket serenade I cannot recall what I thought to forget.

Rhapsody in blu(rr)e(d) reminiscence strikes an atonal chord.

[Roads {less} traveled need no light; my feet can find their way in the dark. I know this route by rote heart.]

Some things will always be familiar no matter how stark the change, though the glow – fleetingly lustrous – will forever be obscure.

“You can’t go home again,” said Thomas Wolfe, and it is not the place to which he refers.

I drive down dusty roads under moonlit fog, catching glimpses of my past, flaring against midnight ink.

Nostalgia in noctiluca noir.

It is the witching hour.

And in this moment, I am incandescent.

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