Practice. Writing.

I was going to write.  Practice writing he said. But.
The clock on the table makes too much noise.

Yes, it ticks too loudly. Even its hands move ominously,
that’s the problem,
I can’t see it move but I can hear it.

He said I must practice writing.

The back door of the house, the behind, the backyard.
The air smells good.  Too good,  like a women’s perfumed body.  No, It’s the trees.
The heady scent of the flower trees.

It’s nice when someone affectionately calls out to me.
I do no think I have any thing more to say. Not much to say.
Bye

pen

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