Between the Lines

Pulsing with an immense urge toward (to ward) written creativity, I pull my pliable notebook from its panted leg pocket (breathing hard in the knead for flexibility), then furiously (in the most congenial way) slash and burn these words upon the open field furrows of its decreasingly virgin availability, giving you viable (vie a bull) return for whatever coin your means has laid (watch it) upon whichever barrelhead your questing mind has offered as bargained chip deign paymentality, in order to read your own derivative construing of my efforts. Like life itself, a literary actuality grows from the wanton (want on) use of a hitherto fore (thither forth, too) applicably untouched surface. Thus: This: I wrote.

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