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Short Story / Literary Fiction
I know not what to write, perhaps in fear that you have never read me and will not. I will not be known, not seen, and yet, it is an amusing thought the situation that occurs. Look at your screen, and realize you are already looking at it. The strangeness in words is perplexing. The properties of words are fundamental. Am I jesting? Probably. You read my words as I present them to you from a time you have little sense of, maybe it was a day ago or a year, but it was my time, the time of these words and words really have no time, and beyond refute, my words are words. They have remained, and now, my words find worth as they are seen, contradicting what I have stated. But words need no worth because they stay, whether we write them on the walls or in this paragraph. Images to words and words to images, I venture to say they are all words and they are all images. These are thoughts. You have read my thoughts. What do you think? You are probably not thinking as you read this, just reading and so my words are what you think. Having fun? I said I probably. Now that you have read me, I jest.
Call me Stella Marie. I am confused cause that was confusing.
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