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Release Call it mere words, call it freedom of press expressed, call it my entire soul on a blank, public slate: it doesn't really matter. The important thing is, this isn't for anyone. It's me, and there's you.
Challenges.
Posts tagged with no purpose.

Stailand Co.

yeahwriters:

Prompt idea by heroicallyfound:

“Flip to a random page in any book that may be close at hand.  Go to the 4th line down the page and read the first sentence.  Use that sentence as the first sentence in your story and write your story/piece as a continuation of that one sentence.”

From The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand:

The intervals between their meetings had grown longer each year. She was bored with his tired eyes and he was tired of her insolence. They only fought over trivial matters nowadays because they were essentially without work, or may as well have been.

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(Source: yeahwriters)

Maybe, It Was Me All Along.

I loved her, but she was no woman of secrets. Every bat of her eyelashes revealed something new once kept in her extinguished soul.

I remember when I heard the three words. Those poetic ones, the tragic ones. I would hear it in my sleep, or perhaps hers. She would look at her nightstand, where the dim halo of light created a sultry silhouette. Or we would be in the car, my hand rested on her idle hand and thigh and peace would finally permeate the vehicle. She would be turned the other way, looking out into the darkness or above the clouds outside the glass. She never opened her window, never. And she never told me those three words unless it was a moment such as these.

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