The space between my cogent thoughts grows wider, as does that between my complete sentences. My breathing also has longer spaces between it. I sense my lungs are losing interest keeping me alive. Thankfully the space between bowel movements has remained constant. Rather than wondering about the space between the stars, I consider the space between cantaloupe sales at the market.
If the space between me and another writer is too small I just may steal his characters.
Why is there papers in the space between cheese slices?
How much space between goldfish should there be in that bowl?
What about crowded hay rides? How much straw should each contain?
See? My thoughts devolve into fragments of nonsense. Luckily most of my friends are too self involved to notice.
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