Farm life
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I no longer need an alarm. My internal clock is not a minute off. I wake up every morning before dawn. It's what I do.
With ice cold toes and the groan of tired bones, I tug on my mud caked boots. It's what I do.
Two feet slap hard on the black pavement.
The blur of the city scape flashes by
Forcing my eye
to watch the bustling people,
to watch to rustling people,
