Sometimes it surprises me that I'm still stumbling forward. Volcanic psychoemotional waves I can't talk about. Forbidden thoughts. Violent struggles for self-control. It's exhausting, on top of everything else. And yet not exhausting enough
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So what's your point?
Haven't heard from you in a while - glad to see your head is still at least partially above water. Be well man.
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Still breathing. If that old saw about only the good dying young is true I'll outlive the lot of you.
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Save that for a story; it'd make a good opening line, wouldn't it?
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So goddamn you, now you've got them running and they won't shut up, yet I *still* can't get a coherent plot out of them. This is *your* fault.
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