Written by Angela Cheetham Wilkinson

Again I am reading words I could not have written.

Not because I don’t have the words.

Not because I can’t arrange my words in a way that’s expressive.

Because these words come from a deep place, one I don’t own – a place I haven’t been, people I haven’t seen, life I haven’t shared.

Yet there’s a link between my soul and the soul of the writer – that’s where I find my understanding of this work.




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