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Nia looked at Typist.
She wore leggings with sagging elastic. Her sweatshirt, emblazoned with the word WANDER, was clean — yet frumpy. Un-showered, not a stitch of make-up, head scarf askew.
Calliope looked at the clock.
The minute hand crept toward the Roman numeral eight. There were just over 3000 seconds to write, shower, and dress before backing truck out of the garage. Could they do it?
Thalia looked at… at… nothing.
The Muse of Wit closed her eyes and let the words Typist just typed come to her. Thalia was not one to chase down what was not ready to be caught. Instead, she allowed ripe fruit to fall into her lap.
Words from Typist:
In this feel-good time between infusions I am blessed with many social engagements. Today I get to enjoy lunch and a walk with a friend.
The poet should leave traces of his passage, not proofs. Traces alone engender dreams.