Saturday, April 17, 2010

Needful Things

As if his feet were aflame, he dashes past me and up the stairs. I follow him, cautiously; I have seen him like this before. When I find him he is writing furiously with a sharpie marker over the stacks of paper that I keep beside my bed. Rapidly he tears through them, one by one, etching grand words over them and destroying them in one fail swoop. I pick them up to unfold them. "Fetching" reads one, "rollercoasters," reads the other.

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