I always try to find reasons to laugh.
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I hiccup in quiet if there are only tickles across the faucet handles,Â
and a hiss escapes me as my thinnest lines slip down the metal grates.
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I chuckle low and hearty when the reeds bend close and the creeks sigh, lazy, although
No one likes my cackle—sk sk sk sk—because it means the final taste.
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I howl with cheer as I rush and dip towards and away from the sand, who always somehow manages to tag me, cheek in its face.
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But some days, I can’t find it in me to laugh.
I lay languidly lost in the depression that cradles deep, high whines and the smell of blood flits above me.
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I don’t bother.
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Answer: The sound of water