His words don’t taste like donuts.
They don’t smell like soap.
And I wouldn’t brush my teeth with them if I were you.

His words don’t hang on walls like photographs or paintings.
They are not murals, although I think they paint a picture about life.
Whose life – his I guess.
Who is he, I do not know.
He is just a speck –
a tiny particle moving from one sieve through another by bigger specks who pour him into little cups.
He sees them but I’m not sure if they see him because they are too busy pouring.
He observes and studies them.
He can turn them into characters in his stories if he wants too.
Or he can convert them into impassioned ideas and argue for their causes.

His words don’t repair broken windows or seal leaky roofs.
You cannot pay a premium for his words so they will offer you protection in this life or the next.
His words cannot be traded for Albert Pujols and a player to be named later.

He fears losing his mind and waking up tomorrow forgetting how to write words.
That is, if he knows how to write words in the first place.

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