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The Fleur de Sel Diaries
 

Testimonial 1.1
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I am writing to you this morning, a Sunday in February.  This has been a very long time in coming.  And so I figure, if not now, then when and so here I find myself….fingers to the keys.  Tapping….tapping….tap.  It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say, au contraire, it is just that I have an uncomfortable history with the written word.  It often works against me in strange and wily ways.  To further illustrate my point, it was the written word that I tripped over last night and skinned my shins. There it was, right in front of me on the sidewalk, large and looming. Not quick enough to swerve and avoid the inevitable - nothing I could do but fall over it. DO NOT SUCCUMB is all it said.  And as my body hurtled forward over the O, the top of that T came into focus and scraped my skin off right down to my raw marrowy bone.  By the time I hit the B, blood was running in little rivlets every which way, as the M tumbled me over my left shoulder and brought me back up to standing. Blood continues to stream down my legs with the early signs of puss showing its yellow face.
 


 
 

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