I'll be your sunken peace, painting the sea
It is my birthday. I am forty-one years old, which means I am the age of I have no idea which fictional characters—I will take suggestions, since the only one to occur to me was dubiously omened. This is a harder birthday to celebrate than some years, but I woke to three cards and a book and the air is full of buffeting sunshine. The cats are purring. It must count for something to be still here.
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