I need a softer bristled brush, and oily pigments that will flow onto forgotten pastel canvas the image of the ghostly child that walked the lonely beach some thirty years ago. It haunts me still, and yet can I, with words, define with strokes of bolder color and so be forced to face the past?
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology