Erika lived around the corner, her yellow house warm and inviting. She only had her dad. Tragic, I thought. She should have talked some sense into her friend, my boyfriend's other girl.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.
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