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Recently I took a quarter with all writing classes, mainly escaping from quantitative computation fatigue a quarter prior. The alleviation is absolutely appealing to me, but I still find myself too tired to compose when I want to now. It is a long siege for us, it is for a lot of things. 

It is not my intention to become so withdrawn, never give into a quiet surrender to the world. Let it flood over my head, then let it carry me across the bridge, drenched.

Here is my break with creativity, with all things abstract, and all things insubstantial.  

How do you remember someone from a period of locked away memories? Everyone from that time saturates themselves with a darker hue, like cellar antiques that can not bear the lightness of day. He will walk around the largest pillars, turn around to face the radiance. They follow me until the end of my past. 







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