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Blank, Landscape. A story.

“Why do you write?” A pointed accusation shot straight at me.

“Writing is the way that I understand the world. It is the way I understand you. And me really.” I reply. 

So what do you do?  You say you write but I am unsure. So you say you don’t need to but I know that is a lie. For if it were true you would live in that blank landscape, with no shadows on it, and we all know that is just for instagram not for real life. So tell why not, why not try, to find the words to say something new or different or just something to me, so we don’t sit here in silence with the emptiness of your brain so completely lost in the fullness of mine. 


There are two green chairs here.
One for me and one for you. But really we know it’s one for me and then just the one next to it. 

I could save it for you but you would not come. 

You who has nothing to say would not come and sit next to me. Not when you have a landscape to paint with dreams that won’t come true, the kind I will crash through to find the barren dessert you spoke of. 

Because you weren’t lying when you said you had nothing. 

I just couldn’t believe you. 

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