Writing

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When I write I bleed onto the page, the pen like a syringe drawing up my soul and the paper like some kind of breathing, animate test tube being smothered with lives and pain and the angst of humanity; I am just some kind of medium for all these great, purging exhalations, this emancipation of lustration that I must give to whatever impetus that is screaming, calling for these words I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl and I scrawl.

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