Traces of us

My mother tends to just watch me at times. Most do, with respect to their own children, I imagine. Still I find it curious.

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I wouldn’t call it a block. I would call it a bottleneck. It’s not having nothing to say rather having too many things to say. As my mind fights to settle on an answer it becomes numbed in the skirmish of thoughts. Firecrackers, streamers and black holes.
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