I wouldn't know how to describe a painting or a sonata, but I can tell
someone how I feel, though they rarely know what I mean. Words fail me often,
but nobody notices. They aren't listening anyway. One person knows me.
When I talk to him I feel like a knife in a drawer, because my words have power.
The possible damage would be irreparable.
He and I are like a house falling apart. Our sidewalk is askew and our
mailbox is missing. It is painted pink and yellow. We love it, it's unique. Last
night I stomped my feet through the floorboards because I wanted to feel my toes…
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