It's been one of those nights where I feel as if I am surrounded by slippery ideas that keep flirting with me and leaving with another girl. So often when I write, I feel as if I am writing into myself - into the me that gets lost and distracted from herself as the day wears on - into me, into God, into holiness. But tonight I'm flapping around, scratching at an itch on an amputated arm.
Fuck it.
I'm going to bed.
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