She wrote with a half chewed pencil, scribbling words I could never have thought of myself. She was funny; she was poignant; her words drew pictures that could have been passed off as Picasso's. And yet the music her words played was equal to Beethoven. Her mix of abstract personality and traditional style was beyond anything I could try to imitate and anything I could attempt to imagine.
Needless to say, I was jealous. I wanted to stop her. But, the strong dominate the weak, and I knew when I was defeated.
Why is life so unfair?
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