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It’s a beautiful evening. The torrential downpour is over and a slow gentle wind wafts scents of wet roads and fresh air perfumed by happy flowers.
The stillness after the storm was wanting to be filled with music. I grabbed my guitar with intent to maim a few old tunes on a cheap instrument, when the compulsion to sit down and produce literary diarrhea came upon me.

Staring at the blank page doesn’t help . No orgasm of verbal enlightenment. No pouring out of inner angst. Just words strung together.

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By David Lane

I was born a long time ago.