Or at least the moments where I found Stephen King.
The moments when forces...or the Big Wheel... knew where Steves work was...
Horrible.
Maybe that`s were his work fitted in.
In that moment...blood...a 15 year old girl with a granade geller in her neck...me being so young when I saw that...
All the tears...all the hurt...the Pain...
I found him.
On a coffetable, just sitting there...The Stand..like it was an everyday afternoon and you go to your favorite library and get your favorite book...and you sit down for a reading...
'Want` tea? Cookies too, thank you...oh, no problem, darling, the tip is gonna be generous...'
Accidently...the writer wrote just that...what you have been thinking about...
How did he know...is a question never to be answered...
He doesn`t know himself...
Why I found it...also...
Same thing. Not to be answered...
I know he is not the best...but...
Neither am I.
But, I love his work just as much as I love myself...and..is there anyone who doesn`t like himself ?
Not the best, but, hey, we do exist...
Not the best...but the best that I know of...
So...the best anyway...or I`d like to believe so...
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), is this some form of Calla-folken poetry?


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