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Category Archives: Writing
A Month, A Story, A Poem or Two
Red, Red, Red Remember when lightning tore the sky open and blood poured down beneath the agonized screams of thunder? Remember when the cicadas drowned, their ceaseless shrieks still echoing in the din of the bleeding— hot summer … Continue reading
Things That Are Always Here
Things That Are Always Here My breath, as close as always can be. More right than wrong; I am breathing. I am here. Sounds, for as long as my hearing holds out. There are noises: a passing train, trees creaking … Continue reading
Thirst
Thirst I want thirst. I long to feel the dusty,gritty dryness of need—the sticky, viscosity of bare—the aching muscle-tightness of thirsty. I wish I could only dreamof liquids.Of cool, refreshing splash—of hot, invigorating gulp—of tepid but satisfying swallow. If only … Continue reading
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