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    My Day Outside


    The other week, when I was cleaning out my room, I pulled down my memory box. This was not such a intelligent idea, as it meant that for an hour, I would be reading every single birthday card, letter, et cetera, that was in there. Most of my cards and letters have been saved from my first birthday through my seventh or eighth, but since then, other items have been added. Along with these was a book of poems I wrote at the age of ten or eleven. (I can easily find out my exact age, but so far I have not chosen to do that.) That was the short phase in my life where I wrote poems non-stop. Ever since I haven’t been able to. I have, for a fact, learned to write with better imagery.  However I have not gotten to the actual poem stage.
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