It's not a word, but it seems to be. What is it about language that gives us to freedom to believe something that simply isn't? It's dark. It's morbid. It's all lies. Every word that doesn't exist: meese and moslings, for one.
I left this blog. I closed my computer and walked away. I'm frustrated. Why can't I write anymore? Do I have to trade for my arts? My drawing has improved. Did it steal from my rhetoric? Did I forget any words? Could I remember which words I had forgotten? I don't think so. I'm really afraid of losing my words. They're my way out. My release. My pensieve (if only). I'm afraid.
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