I stood in the field as the icy artic wind nipped and tucked at my flesh, pinning it to my bones, like a macabre tailor.
Strange how single lines, float to the surface of my writers pail.
Pollywogs with there tails still attached, with a promise of maturing into great story ideas.
A tantalizing agate among the pebbles. A glimpse of gold in the pail.
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