I don't believe that good writing must take itself seriously all of the time.
I dreamt last night of what I'd considered for the short-short. Surfboards, ocean, boy. But this boy was older and the waves grave and choppy on a gray afternoon. They're breaking and I know you'll want to get in. I'm nervous, but I'll try. Then I woke up.
The vision I'd had in mind held glistening waves and too-bright sun. Hope, but perhaps in the end, too much.
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