"If you keep moving slowly, what can you expect to accomplish?" I asked as you worked a little bit each day to finish your report.
"It seems more logical than rushing at the end," you answered calmly, never looking up from your work.
"When did you become a tortoise damning me to an eternity as the hare?" I questioned knowing that the rage would scream even if I did not.
"That happened the day you died and let everyone else take a shot at molding you," you explained in that way only you could ever, where every painful word still managed to sound beautiful.
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