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i write and write and write, and do nothing but edit through all of the unecessary words and wording, until i render the naked sentence open. it sits on the page unashamed and calm. fiction is always false, so why try to dress it up?
"one day i went to the ocean, and sat among it's vastness. the sun beamed a pale golden hue, and the smell of salts, papaya, and far away islands lingered in the light breeze."
"one day i went to her house and had my heart broken into even pieces. i told myself i would be fine, and remembered that she only cried a little."
"one day nothing happened at all, and i was proud of the fact that i had done nothing at all to change that fact."
"one day i cut my hand open on accident; the blood slowly seeping out from my palm in a thin crimson trickle. i had forgotten to buy band-aids that month"
"one day the night came and never left. i am a few friends sat all month long, singing songs and laughing together, in the loving caress of the nocturnal glaze."
and all at once, you run out of things to say...
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