The wind kills the circle I just made in the dirt with my pointed stick.
Some things just never last.
Do you know what it's like, being stuck in a coma?
The wind isn't real.
The stick isn't ******** it, I'm not even real in the traditional sense anymore.
I read one time in school that people never remember their coma, so it stands to reason that if I wake up I won't remember this. Oh well, the desert is overrated anyways.
My imaginary knees popped like gunshots as I stood up and glanced over the canyon I was standing before. The wind blew, and I began to cry.
My mom told me not to get a motorcycle, she told me I would wreck; but even she never imagined it to be a train that took me out.
I didn't want to wake up, at least here I had all my limbs.
Infinite possibilities-A writer's guild
This is a writer's guild where all can gather for feedback and advice on all mediums of writing. Plus it's a great place for conversation.
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