My lips turn in a private smile with this 100. Like a favorite book with worn pages, its magical passages marked by dog ears and slips of paper so I can retrace another’s words. Gifts given without prejudice or recourse, of these there are so many. Each akin to a shell cast upon the shore, a gem to be found as toes wiggle in sands. The words as varied as the writers. In this space a kaleidoscope of color bursts without thoughts to patterns (and sometimes rhymes.) I thank them and begin to wonder, have I written 100 of these?