There is more time to think now. The wider sky seems less forgiving. It’s time to write. The sound of my fingers tapping a keyboard is comforting. Point and reach. Pull back. I curl my thumb around the space bar for leverage. This is not the time to hunt and peck. I pick letters lovingly. Click-clack. The sound of creating prose is not unlike the sound of a steady rain beating down on the pavement. I am well-versed in the language of pain. And no matter what anyone says, raw feelings are often invigorating.
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"Classic"
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