Guide to forest animals
For a moment, i lose the sensation of having feet. When it returns, it becomes a very strange feeling, to have feet.
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The weather is very nice. It is sixty-three degrees fahrenheit. I succeed only at such a climate. At no others.
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Journal, i was supposed to write a mystery. It was to have a proper introduction of scenery and characters. It was to have a plot leading in a certain sort of direction, and then it was to alter its direction very suddenly, like a surprise. The reader was to feel a twinge, from this change in conceptual momentum. Perhaps something would go terribly wrong. There would be clues, but maybe not a hero. Heroes are for older sorts of stories.
Anyway, i have not written a mystery yet.
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Nobody likes a quitter. But then again, nobody likes anything, these days. People are very certain. Certainty is becoming the neighborhood aberrant. Only youth is malleable, maybe.
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I would like to quit biting my fingers into shreds. I am thirty-one, after all. I wonder if it would take a liberally-applied gel, or just a certainty that this is no longer beneficial.
