Write and Write and Write

And oh, I want to write and write and write. Can I do that now? Can I? Really?

And it won't matter whether it makes me happy or not, because there are two types of happiness: The one whose opposite lives in tears, and the one which lies beneath the tears, which is fed by the tears. The one with the outstretched hand and the grease-smoothed brow. I think I like that one best.


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