I find myself making up stories.
Characters and ideas. Dialogue.
Small sparks of something.
A story made of dragging feet across carpet,
touching a door knob.
touching a door knob.
Balloon rubbed on hair and sweater.
And that quickly the story is gone.
I wake to find that my story has lulled me to sleep.
A toddler's desire.
A writer's anguish.
This story will never be written.
Undefined characters.
No story-lines.
No arc..
No real conclusion.
A tragedy.
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