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yellow haze

I am another man but not necessarily a different man. In 1945. The late afternoon fog is a yellow haze. I sit alone in the park. I wear a suit, a tie, and a hat. I drink wine in the yellow haze. By the park trail. Watching the people come and go and the trees remain. The world must obtain a certain amount of personal spin before I can brave another night in the room. The days go by. And the regrets remain. It's a summoning. I am visited by dead relatives or long-lost friends. They come to me through the yellow haze. And sit with me for a bit. They look at me like they are sad to see me in such a state. I feel like I have failed them, failed myself and this life. I offer them wine. They disappear without a word. I sit alone and drink red wine in the yellow haze of a dying world.

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