Time To Move On


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1. Day One: Frozen in Real Time

I don't know what I'm doing...

The words have got to come out.

I am so afraid, and the sitting down and punching of keys is so repugnant, but it has to be done. I've known I was meant to be a writer since I was, what, five? But in the last eight months I've written all of one journal entry in the notes of my phone, because I thought I was doing myself a favor. Getting some space, or taking a breather, or... something. But to be a writer, you have to write, KC, so get it the fuck together.

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