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May 3, 2020
The sky is starting to ripen over the hedge of trees along the horizon. It is May 3, and it seems like just a couple minutes ago it was still April, waiting for May. This whole business of the passage of time, of human awareness, of memory itself can be daunting to consider. The sky is a study in blue, gray, and reds. I remember other morning skies. There seems to be an archetype in my memory that clouds out most others. Itís not a real morning; it is a picture of what a morning is supposed to look like.