Beginnings, ends, middles; all notes over ten years. Imperfect prose, shorthand prose, easy poetry, involved illustrations, ruled copybooks and a stagnant pool of paper that is going nowhere. Maybe now I can get some fish in it.
More promises to myself to write down some angst and grudging portions of my childhood. Abuses of power that children notice, jading of younger energies in people already dead — social vampires who move unknowing through circles, sapping energy in the twilight.
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