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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
I’ve always admired people who can embrace change; for instance, just last week I was standing in line at the bank and spotted a small boy, a coin-filled fruit jar gripped tightly in his hands, hanging on for dear life.
Because they have paws rather than hands, I’ve found that dogs (at least mine) actually prefer shooting craps to playing cards, which even includes Pinochle, I was surprised to find out.
When the walls first took on their mirror-like glow, allowing Henry to see his own reflection in just about any direction he happened to turn, he thought it amusing, a novelty of sorts, and he walked around the house looking at himself at every turn from every angle; but when the floors and ceilings took on that reflective quality, and then the couch and chairs and other furniture, the dishes and books and carpet beneath his feet began to reflect, he grew scared that he’d be lost forever, disappearing in some endless picture of himself, and he struggled for a way out, crawling on hands and knees as he bumped into all those things now lost to him, searching the reflection of his own frantic eyes for the door.
I can recall every little detail in her hands, so I instead perhaps should say thank you.
I’d like to say that I wish my hands were coloured a bit more imaginatively, perhaps so they looked like bananas or traffic cones, but I’m more than a little wary of the local mouse.
“You see, when a train is overly full and an older woman appears to be falling over and reaches out to steady herself, the correct approach is not to sneer, but to lend a helping hand,” continued Miss Jane as she deftly returned a bloodied object to the young woman, “ah, I believe this one is yours.”
All the touch, all the beauty, all the hardships - rough, smooth, spiky, you name it - all felt through these two hands.
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