ory end?

    tting by a  is foggy  tucked into a ter knitted by my daugy birtat in my room is set as  s directly be clicks and groans and speale dragon, and still my body s  y years in the making.

    Eigimes, and despite my oance of my age, it still amazes me t I  been warm since George Bus.

    I  is for everyone my age.

    My life? It isnt easy to explain. It  been tacular I fancied it  neit (native to t  resembled a blue-cock: fairly stable, more ups trending upime. A good buy, a lucky buy, and Ive learned t not everyone can say t  do not be misled. I am nots, and Ive led a common life. ts dedicated to me and my name ten, but Ive loved anot and soul, and to me, this has always been enough.

    tics ory, t a tragedy. In my mind its a little bit of botter o vie in t does not c t it involves a great deal of my life and to follo my pat aken me; enougs to fill a circus tent about ot t one, and I   any other way.

    time, unfortunately, doesnt make it easy to stay on course. traig no is stre accumulate over a lifetime. Until t  its impossible norong nor  like an old party balloon: listless, spongy, and groer over time.

    I couged eyes I cc is time to go.

    I stand from my seat by topping at to pick up tebook I imes. I do not glance t.

    Instead I slip it beneatinue on my o t go.

    I iled floors,  people  for television, but to it.

    A person can get used to anytime.

    I ance and knoly w eacings.

    talk often, but I am s