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I owe too much to those I’ve stolen from. I’m a thief of stories Didn’t you know that? And more importantly Do you care? I’ve watched each one wilt into the dead soul Of comedy. You need to handle them as fine china and with a master’s green thumb designed to make an ascending wilderness grow. Holding back each story Is not unlike keeping a sharp stone Under your tongue. Sure you can do it For awhile But sooner or later Your mouth will bleed. Not with blood But with words Which flow like heavy traffic on 11th Ave. Just before rush hour.