She says she doesn't have a problem, and that's true. She doesn't have a problem; she has a thousand of them. Each one more exquisite and more destructive than the last. Each night they all drift away, and each morning they return, one by one, just like she slides each pretty ring onto each spidery finger.

I want to turn this into...a short story maybe? A piece of creative writing, anyway. Hmm. Maybe this summer I can do some more writing.

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