Where the Cynic Grows

stockvault-tree-silhouette153906My cynicism grows.

Of many things.

It grows no longer as a toadstool, here today, gone tomorrow.

It grows now as a tree.

Isn’t that sad?

Until tomorrow…


Post-note: Never of faith. Never of purpose. Never of love. As long as my cynicism is of none of these things, I guess my muse and I can survive a few trees.

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