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where the sidewalk

where the sidewalk doesn’t end

Would you walk me home?

Now, while there is still light? Before the afternoon turns to dusk? The light is fading quickly, so I’ll need an answer soon.

Would you walk me home along that line where autumn brushes against winter, and golden leaves melt into evergreen?

Where the sidewalk doesn’t end.

Where gloves do not require fingers to keep hands warm. (And you may hold my hand if you would like.)

It is a quiet kind of walk in this light, at this time.

I would appreciate the company.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

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