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I used to write.

Once.

I may have convinced myself I was halfway good at it, back when I had (made) the time to do it.

As I looked for my next book to read (To Kill a Mockingbird set aside after the tenth reading or so) I saw my subscriber copies from Morpheus Tales, and I wondered if I did actually write those stories, if I actually did send them along, if they actually were picked up to be published, and if anyone did then read them.

That doesn’t seem like something real.  Not at the moment, anyway.  As small an achievement as those two little stories might be, they are bigger than my ambition right now, and as such they seem very, very far from the me that I am lately.

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