This morning I spent about forty minutes rewriting a non-review for a certain social media community that creates reviews for popular and obscure publications.

The story I told in the book review was of how I engaged in sophistry at a young age and later grew to regret my actions once the prerequisites which may be construed to redeem an act of biblioklept came to fruition. Spoiler alert: I returned the book but not until after the storm surge soaked its real home.

& the reason why I rewrote the review-that-is-not-really-a-review is because it was deleted by an overzealous volunteer admin. The memory remained in my half-sober mind, as a collection of if-onlys that serves only to divide an audience and cede what was seized wrongly. It would be a good node? I should node again? The story is worth knowing?.

I plead the fifth, Jan. The story changed, Ed stood the text firm as it was meant, carefully dissecting parts of speech more quickly than the turns may be called, the rotation brought the point home before the child awoke.

The child awoke before the story changed medium. Ultimately the signal was one of breath, an analog for the one upon which the little one drew their first breath and the shortcuts given but not taken to heart before the start of the end.

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