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longing to write, but i don't know what to write about. all i'm imagining is quite dark, quite mysterious and secretive. writing takes energy though, and i don't have much energy to expend. the days are getting shorter, it's darker, the death of life has come round again. it's weird to think it's been a year. because it doesn't feel better but it's not a lot worse. all i can think about is f+tm's tune about virginia woolf, and her pocketful of stones. the water, always. i need to go back to the sea. also, i was considering getting light therapy or just, idk, getting one of those intensive light things off amazon. my neck is itchy. it's weird. anyway. since i am no longer writing good things, i'm gone. oh, my love don't forsake me, take what the water gave me. |
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i am: mysterious |