Fingers insulting the keys, thoughts scampering through my mind, words trying to make it on to the paper but curtain ones don't make the cut. The "golden
gift" of writing tainted. The plague of not sharing truth interrupted by always having kind words. My mother told me "If you don't have nothing nice to say don't say nothing at all." So I don't talk. All the while having all the things to say. Something to add. But I don't.