That time of the year.

It’s that time of the year again, that one week out of fifty two that I particularly loath.? It’s not the ball games, or the dwindling afternoon light as the days get shorter. No, not those at all.? It’s not the early morning hinting of the chill that lurks a few weeks forth.? No, none of that.?

It is however the memories that haunt from the past not too far gone and still painful to my soul.? I still bear no good will to those responsible and wish for them what they themselves have given.? What I said then still stands today, and will only get etched deeper in all of my tomorrows.

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