If I stare at the blank page long enough
Words will appear,
Words written in black ink, not mollified.
The words will grow together
Like grass forming a sod.
Then, as if on cue,
Spoons dance,
And horseshoes have wings.
A very short story would be the prime motive,
A murder of crows, perhaps.
And perhaps not.
Sometimes, the mud crawls together like glue.
It seals the...
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