a 29-year-old jack from Virginia

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"But I tried, though. Goddammit, I sure as hell did that much, now, didn't I?"

Words in a space. I don't write. I only ever flush—the readiest concordant contents out from a fevered head and heart, fitfully and inconsistently.

Walt Whitman wrote. His mouth was so filled with writing that it poured over his smiling lips, down his big gray beard and into artful scratch on stacks of scrap. It's all in his manuscripts; God bless me, I've seen them.

Ayn Rand wrote. She couldn't hold her days of work and nights of study and all her loving hatred in behind those big brown eyes that stared sharp words into pages by the thousands. I've read them again and again.

It's a talent—a goddamned refinement of perspective, not a gift.

(One day, I'm gonna write.)

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