Soaked socks. Always wanted to make that pun. Play upon words. Play upon time, little one, little snail going to school with too many bags, play upon weather, hoping that at least now, for this simplest of things, God would listen to you. But sludge it is and your socks are soaked and your heart is soaked and your books are heavy and you're one step closer to that sunnyy afternoon in your grandma's bedroom when you wrote: TODAY, GOD IS DEAD.
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