This tonight is the end of a long day of story telling. I am used to tipping my nose in my tea. There is honey caked on my chin. A story has been written.
Maybe this time next year she'll be sitting on a shelf in a bookstore wanting somebody to love her and I will say, Ebony, my child, my prodigal. To be loved is not to be.
Today is a day I worry about me because I've been stuck in her world for nearly 24 joined hours. Zak called me today and I think he was worried because I was forgetting how to answer a phone. I had three missed texts before noon. There are no cell phones at sea.
And I said to my roommate, I have been writing all day. She said, that is why you are here.
30thousand to sit and write all day long. I just wish the money was going into my pocket, instead of out.
Someday.
Maybe next year when she's sitting on the shelf and I am telling her You are Loved, and she is smiling and saying, You too.
My tea is cold. Time to heat it up again.
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