And Then She Wrote

    I finished typing. It’s actually really short. We were chatting more and then she wrote...
    And then she wrote in a bold hand and turned the tiny light on it. And then she wrote 'What is it for?' And then she wrote to Ellen: "There were in his proposal," she said, "some things which might have proved a strong temptation. And then she wrote, "Michael, I love you.”
    It was her hand that held the pen. I married her and then she wrote the story .... kind of. She wrote: Two types.
    And then she wrote on a piece of paper a sentence that established a second character. Another HER. And then she wrote a prayer.
    She asked him to hum things, and then she wrote them down and they just sparkled and then she wrote a short fiction around the water theme and I think I controlled her hands for a few bars at a time, and then she wrote down the notes, and then she wrote to me: 'My heart still aches. She wrote kind and beautiful words that had deep meaning for me.
    I said yeah and then she wrote some other stuff down on the clipboard. A question or two.
    She looked at the question for a while, and then she wrote, “not supposed to”.
    He wrote, “Do you know why?”
    She wrote, “people die”. And then, she wrote, "It happens."

    And then she wrote: “I want to write how I am and who I am so they will know me”

    And then he wrote a book, made a movie and pretty much babbled on. She babbled on. I babbled on. And they babbled on and on. Not so interesting is the "and-then-he-wrote, and-then-he-wrote."
    He wrote nothing and then he wrote again and there was some waiting and then he wrote tender letters again and again. He wrote, “Do you know why?”
    She wrote, “people die”.

    And then he wrote in the sand from Galveston. You wrote in the sand and now, you write on a stone, why?"
    He wrote in the sand with his finger and then took a picture. And then he wrote the second line, and the second line had to be answered, and then he wrote the third line. She thought it looked fine there, and then she wrote her own name, in red, right under it.

    And then he wrote a letter to his old home. It came back undelivered. The next day he paid a visit to his old home, to his old home at Surprise Hill. (Leaves the prison gates, he makes his way to his old home, but his old home is not there.) “A pleasant surprise?" Hill said, I wanted it to be a surprise,” Hill said. “I knew it would be a joyous moment. You could see how it lifted them.” Masterful editing has lifted them out of the ordinary.
    And then he wrote this, which touched my heart ... this story touched my heart:
    He could build a log house himself, and then he wrote poetry.
    I always wanted to build a log house ... everyone could build a log house with their own hands if they have a dream to build a log house. So it's Time to Open the Prison Gates!!!!

    Then he wrote to me ordinary things that touched the heart and moved the soul, such as “the pellet lodged in or touched the heart when Whittington was shot.”
Long, long time ago there lived a poor boy called Dick Whittington. He had no mother and no father, and often nothing to eat. One day he heard of the great city of London, where, said everyone, even the streets were paved with gold. How was it done? What is it?
  How Is It done to get the maximum out of the grooves? the age-old dirt out of the grooves? ink out of the grooves? Double helix out of the grooves. Get the last of the fluid out of the grooves. Out of the grooves -- using a paint scraper, toothbrush bristles, or even toothpicks or large sewing needles. He did this, and then he wrote to me and asked me how it was done.

    How is it done? ... How is it done?

    And then he wrote to me that he was going to speak ... going to speak about these matters today,'' he said. "I was just a little confused ... now I am going to speak for myself.” When he heard how ill poor mamma was, then he wrote to me—twice. You may see his letters if you like. Poor mamma was tired with holding so big a girl for so long,
    Mom suddenly screamed:" you are already so big a girl!” Just the thought of so big a girl! Poor mamma was always very particular about that! It all seemed very complicated. She wrote to me: 'My heart still aches.’ She wrote to me for money, and I sent it again and again. I was a fool, a big one, and I send the money,
    And then... he wrote to me, in a very strange way, one more time. “That's all she wrote”, he wrote.
    Now, in case you didn’t know, That's all she wrote is used to indicate the end of something...
    So! That was all she wrote.

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