Too many thoughts at one time. Stories running together, swirling and then collide. Please don't let them stop. They must be told. Could it slow down just a bit. Apparently my body has grown old. Trying to tie together the plots. Making sense from the madness. Precious is this gift inspite of the sadness. Yet I ponder as they flow, who story is it that must be told? Are you real? Are you out there? Will you know when it is done? As the plot thickens are you coming undone?
If it is true, if there really is a you, please be patient with this feeble old me. I am writing the rest of your story.
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