By Silas Weeks
Another day looking out at my old home, my uncleaned home, my sad home. I can see the dust on the ground like someone sprinkled a light dusting of sand all over everything. My record is still slowly spinning as it fills the house with sounds of glory like a band is playing right in front of you, with the horns clashing together almost like they were fighting but in the most beautiful way. Even if my unkempt home is dirty and sad looking, my music can always cheer it up. It's like the walls fill with color and you can smell the warm scent of wood burning in the fire. You can see people dancing to my music because even if my home is dirty, dusty, and not as nice as it once was, it will always be my home and my music will always make it better.
Another day looking out at my old home, my uncleaned home, my sad home. I can see the dust on the ground like someone sprinkled a light dusting of sand all over everything. My record is still slowly spinning as it fills the house with sounds of glory like a band is playing right in front of you, with the horns clashing together almost like they were fighting but in the most beautiful way. Even if my unkempt home is dirty and sad looking, my music can always cheer it up. It's like the walls fill with color and you can smell the warm scent of wood burning in the fire. You can see people dancing to my music because even if my home is dirty, dusty, and not as nice as it once was, it will always be my home and my music will always make it better.
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