Half way.
So satisfying.
The 5, delicately tucked between two zeros.
I suppose it’s time to think about my next hundred. Thought: original poem. Each day draft a new draft.
It begs the question should the next hundred include
new rules?
Woah.
Impeaching the ever-tempting number seven.
As always, so tempting.
But I like it where it is;
it’s a rule that makes me mildly uncomfortable,
and I’m tempted to think that means I ought to keep it.
Like going back on a self-made promise:
it’s only ever after that you realize
I really was strong enough to say no.
Mary's One Hundred 