I dabble at writing, but am no author. I have no byline, no book on a shelf. I worship at the throne of those who can and wonder, why not me? I read, forget, read again, and forget anew. I write of winsome things and heartfelt joys and pains; then wonder who reads, forgets, reads again, and forgets anew. I have words pounding in my skull that spill onto laptop, onto paper, into hearts. But still I know. I dabble only. I cannot write. I can only pour out my soul – for me. Where’s my pen? I must write.
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A reversal of the Trifextra Challenge. There are at least three lies there. And at least one truth. 99 words – because lies take so many more.
