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I keep waiting for something to arrive and even though I know it will never come,

Still, I wait.

And any God I have adopted tells me in my half forgotten prayers that miracles do not arrive.

Miracles are found in the simple action of taking the next step forward.

Yet, here I sit on the front porch, with the dog at my feet, inventing unicorns out of the shapes the mutt has made with his wet paws on the tiles.

And as I fly in my mind with those unicorns, searching for something that will never appear, I look down at my watch and tell myself, grown men don’t get lost in fantasy.

Tick tock of the watch marks my discontent.

But the moving hand on the face of time lulls me back into the comfort of a past, where a boy played in the silence between make-believe and routine.

And I remember.

When you are wild you are one.

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