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I live with an editor

The words bang around in the gray matter, the sulci, rattling, patterned into something if we are lucky.

I had to change a word in today’s poem. What was I thinking? Didn’t I reread the poem and glean any meaning from the combinations of slashes and dashes that make up the symbols that make up the words?

CRAP I feel like a boob (not I feel a boob which would be preferable).

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Tuesday tidbit

I just changed yesterday’s post‘s title.

C’est tout. Au revior!

twinkly

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