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Sunday, 10 September 2017

13

I could write as if I was a tree, but I am not, nor ever have been a tree of any kind

I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find

I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me

I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of laying by, or making love, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery

I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention

I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write, I could not write about me


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