“So you’re a writer?”

My fingers are aching from watching the quickening hands of a clock – I just don’t know if I can keep up anymore.
I stretch out my cracking palms, knuckles that are bruised and bloodied.
I only fought myself- but does that mean I won?
The keyboard is broken. I thought that if I just pressed on these letters hard enough, that maybe the words would ooze out of the screen into my hands. Finally, a tangible dream, something I could hold onto.
But from dusk to dawn they’re still words, and at the end of the day I still type out my dreams.


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