|I write and Jack watches over me.|
How beautiful life is that someone in the world could miss the presence and mourn the absence of one scrawny small black and white cat. Life is indeed precious. I cry into the sky and something good hears me and knows that even here on Walnut Street a cat is missed mightily. Love goes deep whenever it is realized and always imbeds the assurance of hurt. Even so the love remains as the object of that love melts away. I miss Jack.
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