Season of mist and mellow fruitfullness... the end of autumn has come.
The sigh, the beautiful exhale of dusk, the leaving light.
The last moments before dark where the fruit trees stretch. Their limbs streaming towards the sky like wet ink blown with a drinking straw.
It does not appear, it fades, settling in the first moments of dew and silent flight.
A whisper on the wind, and it's gone.
The Tumultuous History of French Lotto
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