Friday, March 6, 2009

My fingers recoil as I type.  Writing is selfish.  When I was a teen I wrote; I had so much to say.  I wasn't in control of my life, so I needed a forum, a soapbox, a page, a pen.  I needed to softly blow away the scathing emotions that floated around like cobwebs in the corners of an abandoned room.

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