Ten tiny, little fingers
That always want to play
That never stop exploring
The wonder of today.
Ten tiny, little fingers
That from the very start
Until reach out for tomorrow
You always hold your heart.
Unknown
My thoughts of the devilish and cherubic borne me a diarist. The usual norm: we all started on pencils and paper or the wall or the table with our sticks and loops overlapped and out of borders and lines. These doodles turned to syllables from printing vowels and consonants complicating to words, phrases and sentences. I soon graduated the writing drills of cursive being able to write more than to voice out to express myself. Find the me in this virtual world.
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