Not even nine

It was seven thirty, and the gray sky was so densely concentrated with cloud that it manifested like a ceiling, almost within reach.

In the distance, the rising sun temporarily broke through. A pink-orange hue reached the buildings. I’d never seen that precise color before, and maybe never will again.

I continued on through the cold, damp autumn air, balanced on the blissful line between the full embrace a novel feeling and a the serene awareness of the feeling.

There’s a lifetime ahead, but it’s not even nine yet and this day feels complete.

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