broken abbey One writer's thoughts…

Wednesday

I hummed and beeped at my master, but he did not listen. He pounds on my keys furiously, typing out insubstantial things, ebmeding himself in the abstract.

I creak and moan. I shout to him, "Go outside! Go play! It's too nice to sit here all day!"

He doesn't hear, just continues typing.

I shrug my shoulders.

I am Wednesday.

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