All day at work I have a hollow Monday feeling. My tummy is a bottomless well, into which I throw everything I can find: taught skinned grapes, ridged crisps, melting maltesers, all like foreign coins into a wishing fountain but nothing fills me up, there is no echo of response.
I am hungry for something else, for writing, for words, for the time to sift them through my fingers like sand, like jewels.
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