one word right after the other. That’s all it takes. To make one hundred. Maybe it’s the way the fall leaves rustle across the fresh asphalt and the smell of them mingles with machine oil and together that make an indelible memory of fall that roots in my brain like the smell of grass and warm earth mean summer. Maybe it’s the feeling of knowing how incredibly close to something new Each falling thing means a step closer to spring and growth and rebirth. Maybe that’s a hundred who knows?

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