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I should really stop listening to so much gangstagrass. Remind me at some point.


Three days without writing and I’m physically itching. I can’t settle. I lie in bed at night, so tired, thoughts I didn’t compose and words I didn’t purge battering at the inside of my skull like formless, frantic bees. Like I’m standing under a pylon — that anxious, electric buzz that sets your teeth on edge. My thoughts won’t collect so I have nothing to say, but I have to offload some clauses, decant some constructions, before the top of my head pops off.


I have ALL THESE PHOTOS I want to post, but I don’t have Photoshop at the moment. Here’s the cutest little dude in the world anyway:

And the cutest slightly-bigger-dude, too:


Okay, as you were.

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Writer of things. Annoyer of cats. Mother of very small dragons.

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