Writing always calmed her down. The art of forming words which flowed onto a page expressing foolish rages and sudden hyperactivity, rapturous bursts of happiness and depressing sadness. There were always words on the tip of her tongue – slipping, dripping down her arms and out through her fingertips; sparking.  But then they were no more. No longer did the words ooze out of her. They did not impatiently spark in her head until released, exploding onto the page hungrily. The words were gone; dead…


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