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Grouch Of My Pen

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Bruising the marigolds, the sound of ticking emanating from everywhere and nowhere. Echoing from the cornices of my mind a maddening note. Cloaked in the night as dark is my piccolo>, tapping the thunder…ticking. Sloshing through the crescendo. Bruising the marigolds as the ticking slithered across the chamber of my mind. Like a whirlwind with a thousand legs upsetting my staccato, feeding the grouch of my pen. 

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