Like what do you want to be, what does the morning decide you will become? A raindrop, a mermaid, a fallen feather off a clumsy dove mid-flight? Whose voice sings in your heart right now? What words do you find your thoughts clinging to over and over and over? What story did you erase and which chapter did you start with? How many ghosts inhabit your head at this very moment, and how many of those said supernatural forces are you willing to entertain?
Just right now you offer your hand, fingers dancing despite the cold coating it, despite the rain, reaching out with hesitant palms wide open, an aria aching to be sung from the quickening beat of your pulse:
- How long do you have to wait until another verse arrives?
- And how do you intend to welcome it?
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Say something! And you don't even have to rhyme or wax poetic.