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[I'd got out of the habit of Saturday and Sunday papers both; by Sunday night I'm drowning in words of a like, and know no more than I did before I started. Eyeballs ache from scanning hopelessly for something to break the tone, too weary to enjoy a book.
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Strange, elongated silence; cat in his winter position, upended like roadkill under the radiator. Started today with a blanket of snow, melted under rain, bus to stand by the car, waiting for a 22 year-old AA man to fail to mend the car, towed. When the leader of the free world is younger than you, are you officially old?
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It's the 4 o'clock sunsent and the 5 o'clock nap preceded by the stomach-confusing three o'clock lunch, which altogether convince me it's surely midnight, but it's half-past seven. Will I, should I, need I eat again? Mustn't wish away the hours, but I'd be happy asleep; don't need any more from today (except pills, definitely more pills). Won't find yourself wishing on the hours when you're back in the maws of work.
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The swathes there wasn't time to write on Friday I can't write now. Clearly I'd make a rubbish journalist: I can't write on demand. I censor this blog, so determined am I for a happy ending. I don't say: I am bored or I am anxious or I am just plain miserable for no good reason.
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When did self-consciousness set in? Think how this blog only started and God only knows who has read it and why self-censor now? In the current relative calm I'm not sharing every last up, down and sideways move. It's all become rather glib and recipes and a funny thing happened on the way to the forum.]
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What did I edit out? Take a guess. Write your own. Fill the gaps. ~ ~ Writing is a magical thing: bar the ache for which any moment now I will lean down to the bottom right hand drawer and grab pills, I am lighter of head and heart than when I started. Thank you, words, keyboard, pen for coming to my aid one more time.
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