Smoke Long Stories

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An account in writing stolen. A simple crime for a simple gain. I ascribed much meaning to that simple journal. No secrets, but thoughts were lost. Lost, along with poems, songs, stories, and a small drawn heart from a girl who used to love my singing. All taken away without a promise of recreation. Victims becoming perpetrators, hurting those who aren’t necessarily innocent, but try to harmlessly create. I’ve taken to abandoning the idea of its return, but it hurt. Same applies for the other goods stolen. Writing will eventually stop being a reminder of the loss. I await that time, a time which is not far off. The doctor suggests to me what I already know, what I am doing right now: pen to paper.

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This entry was published on 01/01/2013 at 00:00 and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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