Everything feels strangely choked, constricted, shut off. That colourful stream that unending stream just waiting to pour itself on paper. Remember? That disobedient stream that would pour regardless has been replaced by only a sense of looming cloud of dark words that threaten to spring themselves up on me without warning or ceremony. Except they don't.
Many apologies for the silence around here. Yes, to all of my three readers, sorry.
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1 comment:
thank you. the writing about the not writing will keep your easy to please reader satiated for a while.
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