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I’ve decided to dye my hair gray because I’m young. Or

I believe that I am young. Everyone believes that they are young

because they do not know what it is like to be any older.

We marvel at reflections and wonder what

the years have set aside for us. If my hair turns gray

on its own accord, I will never know what it is like to be older

than my years. I will proceed through the silver lining

to daunting pools of slate without a voice. If I find answers,

I will have Perspective. Perspective will save us,

but Perspective is unnerving.

This morning, I drove by her near the edge of town.

Her stone said Hart but the wind spoke otherwise.

She was twenty nine and her hair was innocence blonde.

Her stone sat me down and gave me a stern talking-to.

The wind licked my hair and heckled me.

I hollowed my eyes to remember the weather.

My gray tresses will be the talk of town. This town

Needs something to talk about. I always thought that

I was fashion forward.

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