Sticks for stories

I was writing, thinking, with pencil and paper.

I was thinking, writing, of the trees from which the pencil and paper

had been cut and pulped,

and of the stories that I had cut and pulped,

about kicking leaves around the trees,

along a golden path around the trees,

the ones that had given us

the pencils to write with,

the ones that had given us

the paper to write upon.

And I collected a stick,

and I directed the trees

to grow as high as possible,

to explore the sky as much as possible,

to give us, whenever possible,

more pencils,

more paper,

more stories.

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