The engines of necessity are parked in the sidings of despair. The seven members of the maintenance team of fate have hung up the toolboxes of desire, and wept seven oceans of tears. All along the line, points freeze and grandmothers step. The reason of sleep comes knocking gently on the souls of your window. Do not let it in.
On a lighter note, I see that it's not raining this morning (yet).
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