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I write for the ones without a voice.

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this distinct feeling
of constantly being awake. It's five in the morning. I should be asleep. I've been working and researching. I just threw out 20,000 words to start over from (mostly) scratch. I don't have insomnia. My mind won't slow down. The picture is there, full-blown. I won't forget it if I go to sleep. I need to reconnect with you before I do this. Right now, things are like children running around on a playground. I don't want that childish quality to it. I want the wisdom of the dying fully fleshed into her as a young adult. I can't get that while the thoughts are still playing. They'll grow up by the morning. I should sleep.

Do you have it this time, my dear? Do you have the fire you've been keeping from me? Hiding it underneath bells and belts, stuffing the life out of them, like I wouldn't notice the smoke about your eyes? You should really be more clever about these things. Now, our light swan offers promise of the commercial side of things. The one I plucked bare, to learn how her feathers peel from her flesh and bleed at the plumes. Smelling the recollection of that time will lighten my hand when necessary. I need that to simmer with the children. Let them bake and swim together. Let them toil and sweat and play and learn together. I have to go to sleep now.

Laugh at the ego strokes and mourn the mirrored stuffing. Darken the room and put Fly Me to the Moon on so we can dance. Tire me out. I'll go to sleep. This third time must really be the charm. If it isn't...well, I don't have much of a choice other than to keep going, do I?

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