Day 50: March of the 500

It was always about the words. That is clear to me now, with the benefit of pandemically focused eyes.  The tangible reminders surround me, piled high on shelves and stuffed low inside of drawers. Traces to the vestiges of a youth hastily scribbled, now just ink fading into brittle yellow pages.  Frantically typed words, the jotted notes of an earlier middle age more neatly cataloged, but still ignored.  Recent rambling novels, unremarkable and isolated. All just words.  All just the lingering remainders of relationships torn and years foolishly squandered.  All just captured emotions parading inside their paper prisons. It was always about the words. Words that are sometimes munificent.  Words that are sometimes dispassionate.  Words that are capable of building new worlds.  And words that can …

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