When you turn around, you see mountains of words piled at every corner, see years of quips, of meandering verse, you have not been silent, only mumbling. Some years have better words than others, some years look different in hindsight, some are painful in their optimism, knowing what you know now to come after. She explains to you how what you write doesn't matter if you don't network your way into getting it out there, and you wonder if out there really holds the allure people think. We all think we are unique, but suddenly we are living through the collapse of an empire, and they don't tell you what that's like after the credits have rolled. We all have dreams until the war comes, then we just have survival.
You don't know how to write prose in a world that's falling apart.
You just know it's been done before,
so who are you to be weaker
than that?
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