His Voice

His voice was like the monsoon calling in over the mountains. Memory hung like a mist over the mind. Timbre, sharp as the scent of the pine trees soaked in mountain dew that you inhaled deeply as you climbed the narrow winding road up the cliff. And just as suddenly as the first soft drizzle brushed the cliffs, he filled the soul with the fragrance of the first rains.11145227_10152789017271723_8926486499750195925_n

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