I write in a rush, with the furies riding in the crook of my neck, because any moment there will be a small pitter patter and a cry for milk. So I cannot censor and craft and edit and shape. Everthing must fall from my fingertips like ripe fruit. If they are not ready, they shall continue hanging, In the meantime, thoughts tumble and drop and rot on the ground. Ah, these toddler years are precious.
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