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  • Writer's pictureFrances

August Slipped Away

Like a bottle of wine. 'Cause you were never mine.

It was a summer of recovering from injury, of discovering new places and secret islands, of Taylor, of sweet hours at my beloved hairdresser's little salon, of reading, reading, reading. It was a summer for filling the vessel and not expending too much in too many directions. Let's hope we have a productive fall.

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