day 32, poem 25
7 May 2005 10:25 amthen the music box cylinder begins to wind down, the comb drags slowly more slowly across the pins; and you remember the horns and drums of the marching band fading into the distance, and you're sitting on your father's shoulders, and the last giant balloon has floated past, and the crowd begins to disperse for another year.
05/07/05