i have found a white room. empty, save for a low chair beside the window. a window high in the trees that almost reaches the floor. and a room that devours me in it's whiteness. there is silence if you let the birdsounds go unnoticed. and i write the same sentence six different ways. i read it again and write it a seventh. i see all seven versions because i don't let computers in this room. i have a pen. and i wonder if the sentences will ever fill pages. and if the pages will ever tell a story. and i wonder if i just told one.
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