> jumping into life.

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Words are slow for me, sticky like honeycomb and sore as muscles. Usually, inspiration breeds inspiration in my mind: the more I write, the more I have to write about. But not tonight. Tonight they are a gift I have already given away, to poems that aren't meant for idle eyes, to murmured, helpless sounds of consolation. I've used them the best I know how, and they are tired. I'm tired, too.