I write all my stories before he died, every day that passes I need is more urgent. I started writing just on weekends. Then I also wrote a few days of work. Now, that's all I do, write and occasionally eat. Eat because they make me and hide me pens and paper if I do not.
working so I thought that eventually I would end up stories, but something strange happens to me and I now I'm gushing. This morning to rinse my teeth I spit a story. At noon I cut a mini short of the big toenail. And tonight the wash, I felt like I sprang the beginning of a novel in the chest. I try to hold the pen but the fingers are entangled in poems. It's getting late.
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