Friday, November 27, 2009


Like the binding of a favorite book, each chapter tied neatly in its place. Dinner. Dishes. Clothes. Email. Such has become the story of me. My pen wanders, at times, the end chewed and worried, to places unknown and somehow bigger, but always snaps back at the cry of a child, the empty light of my gas tank. I smile as I look into the distance; I smile as I return my gaze to the familiar pages of my life, a faraway look in my eyes. And happiness, if not content, nestles deeply into my heart.

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