I’ve been dying to write. I hear song, I read a line, I see an image, and I crave to write. Right now, I know I could be writing, but I want hours, not this second or two I’m taking to type this, but a long flight with words
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I know I'm very often a complainer, but it's part of human nature that our most introspective moments are during a time of crisis. This week I have some good news though. It's been an average week with some ups and downs. My freshmen are for the most part awesome; my seniors not so much. It's difficult for kids to talk about Civil Rights, and I've
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I’m not positive on how to do this anymore. I remember I used to love to bear my soul to, in many ways, complete strangers, to the whole public that would read these words. I have a fairly simple, and the urge to tell people about it has left me. It is in part because it got me in trouble more than few times with my family. Everything in this
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SundayI have never seen black so sweetly dark, so mysterious as I glance out my window and see nothing but the many yellow heads of the flames. They reflect like wispy mirages that enlarge the room deep into the darkness. I look outside the balcony and see nothing, and I have never been so delighted by this. I hear the distant hissing of the cars,
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