It's hard to start new after taking a break, the white page seems precious.
On days when I write daily, I am perfectly comfortable spewing nonsense.
Yet now, there is pressure to write something, profound, true and poignant.
Impossible.
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Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring...
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"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like ...