My stomach is creaking and groaning like planks in an old wooden porch. I am restless fingers and a timid heart. They hover above the keyboard tentative. Backspace devours the words as fast as I get them down. Nothing comes out right. I’ve imagined what my words would look like spread out a bit more. I keep a tiny corner of the internet with a readership I know mostly by name. But I dream in those quiet hours, when the clacking of my keyboard staves off the dark, that my words might find …
a student of grace, seeking wonder, becoming fluent in the language of hope
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