By Christopher Munroe
I keep an old jar in my bedroom.
It’s the sort of thing you’d assume was antique if you found it in a rustic farmhouse, but which you realize seeing it in my downtown apartment is almost certainly a replica.
It’s actually antique. One-hundred-thirty years old, in fact…
I keep it by my bed so as to grab it, first thing when I wake up.
I whisper my hopes and dreams into that jar.
And then I seal it, tight, locking them away.
And that way they won’t trouble me during my day, while I’m off working my day job…
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