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Just some random thoughts…thinking about writing fiction and this character came to mind, and he was thinking…

And as he wrote into the night, he realized his stories, his poems were almost always about the outsider–like his dreams. He was always outside looking in at well-lit warm kitchens, just trying to smell the dinner cooking, trying to hear the parents and children talking.

I’m an old crazy coot, he thought. I’m the outsider for sure, even in my own writing. Even in my own mind.

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