That moment before sleep
 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. 
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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