I can't wait to have my own apartment.

moving right along.

I bought more empty notebooks. It's as though my mind, or possibly my soul, is crying out to begin writing. And yet I can't bring myself to go beyond the meager beginnings I will myself to write down. I have writer's block to the nth-degree.

"Angels and demons were circling above me" -Origa, Inner Universe

I feel like I'm trapped in the service of this monstrous thing. It's really lame, but I feel like I'm giving birth. I've got this convoluted, complex, exhausting set of ideas in me. And I can't bring myself to sit and get some of it out and fix it and HAVE IT COMPLETE.

Ah well. Tomorrow's a new day, and I'll get it done then.


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