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Any action, repeated enough times, becomes robbed of its vitality. Setting down the first line of an entry in this journal, for example. Noting the weather, for example. But I will, because I don't know how else to begin. It's not like the days are especially distinguishable, one from the next. Not here. I can go a week without leaving the house and not even realize that I've done it.

Currently, 79˚F, and the sky is that shade of blue.

Yesterday, I wrote a measly 524 words on Agents of Dreamland. A snail's pace. I have 14,283 words to go.

Aunt Beast


( 1 comment — Have your say! )
Aug. 14th, 2015 07:02 pm (UTC)
A curse.
I believe there is a curse that goes, "May you be born in interesting times."
( 1 comment — Have your say! )