Hands

Hands

0 0 2 years ago
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February 14, 1999: But…why me?
My pen stops…my eyes turn another direction. Ink stained fingers look back at me. What have I done? It’s as if I’ve murdered words to watch them bleed—tiny drops of influence flood the clogged temples leading toward the impossible. Words fall hard against the wall and I’m expected to understand each purpose. Sometimes I laugh—while most of the time I’m amazed. Who am I to believe that I’m this so-called painter who is allowed to touch another mans dream? ... See More

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