A sneer in my being, which rests within my ribcage, latches itself to the many moments of strength and love that I hunt for day in and day out.
The level at which I reason is at one and the same time a mountain peak of crushing weight and visible stress and a trivial combination of small snippets from the life forces with which I enmesh myself.
To write and to write forcefully, well and luminously is possibly not so simple as I like to assume in the trenches of my confused existence.
Lastly, passion kills moments of -- what is the word I must reach for in this moment of disconnect? -- rascality.
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