An April Sunday brings the snow,
delicately bouncing against the panes of high windows as I watch the dedicated stride towards the Brynmor Jones, strangers to me as I am to you but although we have not met, I feel I know you.

A jam stained solid oak table adorned with scraps of paper, jottings only I could understand reminding me of the perilous homework
often not completed from my school day...

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