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May 7, 2015 by musehick

Week rolls on. That old game of time. Ideas crystallise, and time to execute them fails to manifest, and the demands of schedule force in new things. We get half way there, but it is better than nowhere near.

I am an artist, and I succeed through working hard as a motherfucker. Build a wall and you never put as much of yourself into it as a writer. I hate the notion of bleeding on the page – fuck that, I didn’t open a vein and gush; even if this page comes out raw as I wrote it there is some craft there.

I am emotionally available, not diarrhetic. Some people and their bullshit metaphors turn this whole art form into a circle jerk, and it shouldn’t ever be that; need never be that.

I think fast, so everything I write is considered. I don’t say it if I don’t mean it, but I can edit it if I change my mind. Neither version is a lie. Do I sound angry sometimes? Hmm. You just don’t know how to read the passion distilled herein.

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