Never-ending

It’s not a novel I’m trying to write when I string words together in my head to describe the movement on my insides when I start to worry about my younger sister whom I think has been abandoned by the world. I’m not ready yet to publish a book about my life and how it was great in the beginning, but only ever got worse since December 2010 when I came to the land of opportunity. I never write these lines down; the ones that form in my head as I walk along the street thinking about the most recent argument I had with the man who wants to marry me. That is just the way my mind works. It makes my life into lyrics and poetic lines, distant, sepia paragraphs that I imagine would look nice in an old book to a woman crouched on the floor, sunken deep into its pages. The shortfall is that these lines never seem to develop into a full body. Instead they trail off and float away into the cool wind I hate because it always makes a warm day into one where I need to shiver.

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