What Would Silence Sound Like?

I’m tired of writing about holding the hands of sick or dying people. After a while it starts to feel gross, constantly turning the warmth of a human hand in yours into poetry for a blog for a paycheck. I do not know what else to do. No one should be related to a writer, or even close to one. Everyone should be able to die or be ill in peace without someone waxing poetic over the autumn leaves or the wrinkles on your hands or the wisps of hair braided into tiny rivers against a hospital pillow.

But content has its own demands. We scroll looking for something to read about…

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This is where I experiment. This is where I learn to write.

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