Sleeping Weather
Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep
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I'd Written a Book, but It Wasn't Me
Any thought that flickered through my neurons just went through the pen and onto the page. A lot of it came out as utter nonsense. That was the point, actually. To clear the static that wasn't me. And leave space for what was. As years had taught me that we are all strange. Every one of us. So then I guess none of us are.
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