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Drafts

He’d write down drafts of empty stories that never lived to be felt nor seen. He thought I left him unheard. He thought I left them unheard. But words meant meanings. I knew they made sense even in the absence of life. Someone must take those words and breathe life in them with other words to make them complete.

And for a moment there, maybe it had to be me. Of course, it was bound to be me.

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