Why must I go into the world, together or alone, to BBQs, go sailing or watch passersbyes small or grown?
Perhaps a conversation starts, or maybe I'll blend with the wall. Neither of which matters, it's all ingredient from whose mixture something evolves.
Sometimes hours pass, sometimes a day or more, but I always get a feeling when the ingredients will become something more.
Like the nauseated is to a commode, I am drawn to paper and pen. As a lady in labor must push, so I must expel that which is within.
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