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Literature Text
there is a tiny girl in the coffee shop in my mind. sometimes she can be seen writing poetry and other times simply drinking iced tea. i ask her why she's there, because nobody else ever stops by the coffee shop in my mind. it's rather secluded, as one might guess.
but this girl laughs at me and says it's her favorite place to think. the cozy safe haven found in the town of melancholy, not too far from the town of broken optimism, is the best place to consider the world. i'd be one to disagree, but i myself rarely stop by. so instead i listen to her as she mumbles about always getting the words wrong, as i sip my own hot tea.
so what are you writing? i dare to ask. it's particularly warm inside the coffee shop in my mind. perhaps i have a fever.
this girl points to my hot tea. why do you drink this? she asks. why do you drink something that can burn your tongue?
my thoughts falter as i consider her question. i never enjoyed hot tea; i drank it merely because i couldn't stand the embarrassment of drinking only iced tea. in a world of hot beverage drinkers, why should i be different? but i don't say this to this girl. instead, i shrug and say, dunno.
she nods, as if she expected my answer to be as such. as a frequent visitor to the coffee shop in my mind, i suppose it makes sense.
well, she says, that's what i'm writing about.
and i don't think i understand.
but this girl laughs at me and says it's her favorite place to think. the cozy safe haven found in the town of melancholy, not too far from the town of broken optimism, is the best place to consider the world. i'd be one to disagree, but i myself rarely stop by. so instead i listen to her as she mumbles about always getting the words wrong, as i sip my own hot tea.
so what are you writing? i dare to ask. it's particularly warm inside the coffee shop in my mind. perhaps i have a fever.
this girl points to my hot tea. why do you drink this? she asks. why do you drink something that can burn your tongue?
my thoughts falter as i consider her question. i never enjoyed hot tea; i drank it merely because i couldn't stand the embarrassment of drinking only iced tea. in a world of hot beverage drinkers, why should i be different? but i don't say this to this girl. instead, i shrug and say, dunno.
she nods, as if she expected my answer to be as such. as a frequent visitor to the coffee shop in my mind, i suppose it makes sense.
well, she says, that's what i'm writing about.
and i don't think i understand.
Literature
the trouble is
i'd like life to be
quiet and lovely
like distant church-bells
chiming through snow,
muted by the smell of
an old book and the
feel of a fire warming
me into my chair, and
a mug of tea, steeping
the moment in hushed
gratitude, easily in reach.
Literature
if she were any more tomato she'd be blueberry
xvii.
i want to write about how this world of
absolute truth, knowledge, and solid food
that which we hold high between two fingers is always
full of watery applesauce and little white half-truths.
and about how utterly strange
it is that all the simple things that people
write about on pages are, in reality,
very few and far between.
xvi.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,
sometimes,
small and
important
moments
of grace.
xv.
i want to write a poem about why the hell i'm wasting
my time writing poems when i could maybe
actually be doing something produ
Literature
The Silo Complex
"You won't believe what I just saw in the field."
I sighed at Eloise in the doorway. "Another dead raccoon? How big was it this time? You know it's just maggots, right?"
"No, that wasn't it. I saw a man."
"Was it John?"
"No."
"Fox?"
"It was a man, but it wasn't really a man. Almost a man."
"Almost a man?" She had recently taken to wandering in the fields under gray skies, thinking that she'd find her answers among the abandoned farm equipment and rows of dried corn husks. She never did. Just raccoons. I never heard anything about men who
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