She told me to stop and

smell the roses, hoping that

I would learn to recognize beauty. But

she forgot to tell me that every

rose has thorns, and that besides, I was

allergic to their delicate scent. So now,

years later, when I've been alone for a while,

in a dark room, I remember how I used to stop and

smell the roses, and I wish that I had hurried along

instead to greater things.

The End

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