What Would I Do Without Ficly?

Wallowing in a tortured storm of angst, I incompetently balanced backpack, cooler, and jacket while trying to extricate the front door key from the recesses of my jeans pocket. In the end I kicked the door, rattling the entire structure loudly enough for someone inside to unlock. Without the necessary wherewithal to battle the inevitable slew of questions regarding my mood, I heaved my burden forward, gaining unstoppable momentum to carry me upstairs, where I could escape.

Even within the confines of my watchtower, I could not shrug off the cares of the day as easily as my bags, nor shut them out as simply as slamming my door. Worry, confusion, and disappointment crowded the spaces of my mind without relief, as demanding as a pack of reporters. Faced with such discord, the desire for peace soured and turned bitter within me. Boiling ire was settling in, disregarding my protests to its encroachment.

A thought, then: red, white, and cyan. Perhaps, as countless times before, I could find refuge.

And I did.

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