The-Silent-Shore-202606062145.txt
The river don't care about your feelings. It just keeps going—slow and brown and tired, the way it's been going since before anybody could remember. I sit on my porch and watch it. Every morning. Same water. Same mud. Same sky. The kind of sky that looks like it's been sitting there too long, like a ceiling nobody thought about painting. My ears ain't what they used to be. Half the time I'm...
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