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Alone A pack of crayons, waxy and bright. That night I sat at a white porcelain table, with my feet grazing the floor. I wondered, what more could one want; not knowing. Snow would soon blanket a sullen landscape, where the dead were lying in state. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. As Grandpa's Olds Eighty-Eight turned to rust, by a pink flamingo in a one car garage.