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Poem: Fifteen Hours and Fifty Nine Minutes in Seattle Sun

Fifteen hours and fifty nine minutes of daylight.

For someone who thrives on the night, the summer solstice is the worst day of the year. It’s the long look at the shadows under the eyes and five day old beard. It’s the knowing that most people don’t live with curtains pulled cursing at the sliver of light that points an accusatory finger across the floor.