I used to write.

I ran out of places to put my words. I don’t want to write messy stories hidden away in secret diaries for my great-grandchildren to find a hundred years from tomorrow.

It is April. I put my favorite summer dress today, but not because the weather asked it of me. It has been cool and rainy. I wanted to feel summer, and I wanted to wear summer today. I kept my legs bare, left my hair loose, and threw on a large charcoal grey cardigan that reaches my knees over the bright blue dress that stops mid-thigh.

My head aches. The dress is not helping. I want to pretend everything is normal; boring.

Everything is not normal.

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