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I write and update in a series of snapshots,
a post here, chapter there, a book there
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in hopes that when I am gone from this world there will be but a thousand notes spread about my head, each playing and sitting and eating
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and that at the end of the day, when things are dark and crowded, that they will go and sit in their articles, fit into boxes and black and white and all the colors a word can be
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and that they will be there in the morning when I awake
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so that my silhouette, shadow, fool, as one may call it, will be doused and of ink
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