The first of many.

As a writer, there are days where the words flow and flow and flow and flow. They don’t stop. They come and continue and they don’t show any signs of stopping.

Today is not that day. This is not that week.

There are no words.

I see things differently, I see things in their details, for their beauty, and for everything they are.

The art in the museum, those artists were like writers. They saw the simple things, like walnuts, broken glass, wires and turned them into beautiful things. Beautiful pieces of art.

People stopped. They stared. They ogled in awe at the beautiful things.

And all I could do was look at them and not find the words to describe it at all.

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