He came home smelling like campfire.
Strummed for a while and forgot it all.
Sang for a while 'till he got tired of his voice.
He never heard a crackling fire after that.
Blanket on his back and his worries forgotten.
A night lit by coals and stories.
Whitestone felt like fool's gold again.
Close enough to happiness,
but never the real thing.
"Close enough to happiness, but never the real thing."
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