Tuesday, May 8

sitting up till late, being forced to scribble and think, then do a bit more, with poetry-reading interludes. I do miss it, but I know it's a bad idea. For now, with exams...

There are some things I've been writing recently, which seem more true than other stuff, less shackled, less controlled in the sense of trying to achieve a certain structure, or shape; more allowing the poems themselves to evolve. But is is scary reading them, and although I want to put them on here, there are people who know me who read this; and people, they have that habit, often, of presuming. I assume their presumptions will be something, which, with time, I shall learn to slowly keep a distance from.

I also had an idea: many stories, stowed stories, converged last night.

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Children should be allowed to write stories how they want. Maybe, maybe then we wouldn't all be 'fucking idiots' to the same extent, where our thoughts are a constant mangled mess, wombing pregnantly as they poke us.

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