I'm sorry. I meant to.
But the welt a paintball bullet left on my arm is blossoming. Blooming. A delicate, curved form, pale red.
Poppy-like. It's tender. It smarts to touch.
We will remember them.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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