What’s happening to me? Words once flowed from my mind in an endless stream. Now they don’t. I just sit here fiddling with pens, screwing up paper and bending paper clips.
We used to go to a club on Mondays and sit in a circle reading stories we’d written. Or was that Tuesdays? We did, didn’t we? Yes, I remember standing up and reciting a poem about my cat. Or dog. That was me, wasn’t it? Or was it you?
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