I mourn as I try to hold the ragged fragments in my hands.  They bleed through my fingers, falling softly and settling into a small, sad heap.

My heart is heavy as I make careful attempts at rescue.  It is of no use.  Try as I might, I cannot make it whole again; my feeble efforts only cause further damage.

I voice my anguish to an empty room.  It was a great idea for a story, written on a napkin.  Why didn’t I empty the pockets of my jeans before I threw them in the wash?  Now it’s forever gone.

End

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