After the move, there are new things to write 100 times on a sheet of paper

I will mitigate chronic grumbles with occasional watermelon
            I will acquiesce to opportunities for sudden bliss
I will recite the litany of names of friendly neighbors, dogs included
            I will quell the urge to hang wet sheets on a phantom clothesline
I will keep Comfortable with Uncertainty close to hand
            I will simulate contentment until the real thing fits like a soft sweater
I will lift the needle from the turntable before it plays a dangerous song

                                 On the other side of the page, these:

I must not pave a new rut with old regret
            I must not try to exit the wrong door
I must not turn savage when I cannot find my lost purpose in the other room
            I must not heap coals of annoyance on non-existent dead embers
I must not mistake inconvenience for cataclysm
            I must not disturb the new breed of sleeping dog
I must not misplace the moon

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