There is a slight pause
between the thought
and the spoken, and written.
It is time,
a small time,
yet time.
It is space,
a small space,
yet space.
A syllable,
from mouth
to spoken.
A synapse,
a connection,
communication.
I have a thought.
The thought comes out
my fingertips.
Life extracts fishhooks
from meanings
never planned.
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