If you attach a wound up old time music box underneath my tongue, I will never talk again.
When it stops, I will rewind the crank, start it over, and listen to the melody for the rest of my life, which should only last a couple more years.
I am going to die in the fall.
I am going to be buried in a pile of dead brown leaves.
Smile, because with each minute that time is getting closer, or it might have already come.
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