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Winston Ritson
Author
the ruptured man
Without much to say and the calendar ravenously consuming the days of my life, I know I have to pen a piece. The following words are an obligatory contribution to the digital clutter, a few more bytes piled high on the trash heap of talent mistaken for talent. I think I have what it takes, but, the acrid smell of fingertips leave stains across the digital world, leading me to one conclusion. Maybe two conclusions, or even more. The conclusions seemingly self-dividing, digital cells of my contribution to the unread, the uninspiring, the unwanted creation of an artist in waiting. Yet here I am, piling byte upon byte, vowel upon vowel, and mashed together with consonants and loose bows of myself tying it all. None of that really matters, because for all these pieces invisibility - I did it. I wrote. A piece to be lost when the digital ode to myself fades with my person. I do not care, because. When my person goes, I will not have much to say.

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