Lost count how many, too many to quantify. Some sad, some joyful, some longing, some twinged with hope. Words, I’m made of, skeleton of sentences, blood of verbs that won’t stop rushing, humming, trying, beating. Sometimes these words stand alone, ring out in color and hue, sometimes they paint themselves on the roof of the reader’s brain, sometimes, I don’t know they do enough. Sometimes I wish for paint, I wish for canvas and brush, sometimes I wish I had the hands that knew how to paint, mix a shade or two, spill it honest and true. Sometimes.
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