She sat down at her old wooden desk, pen at the ready. Her thoughts raced. What shall I write today? Tilting her head to the side, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before enveloping her delicate face. The purple ink began to fill the once blank sheet, each stroke a labor of pure joy as the words flowed from her mind, her heart, her very soul.
My Dreams...
to write of romance and endless love
to love without boundaries
to learn from past mistakes
to laugh with all my heart
to be the woman I am meant to be
Maid of the Mist Most Macabre I cannot wrap my brain around this. She's a basketball player, star athlete. If she smoked, especially that damn hookah that's so popular there, I'd get it.
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