in retrospect, my writing is too confusing to be effective. it is different, exciting, experimental, but for it’s own sake, it pleases my dread arrogance. writers are proud things, cocky as cocks, crowing away so convinced of our own lyrical sweetness. ugh i have never been so annoyed at myself. i have become what i feared i would become: a 16th century english poet oh no.

i understand–understandish–now: it is about clarity. and about heart. rainbows are for riding! not for blinding with hypercolour. too much glitter and the outfit itself is drowned out. this time, i will be clear. for the truth is far more important than me. enough ink for me; into my writing i will dissolve, until there is only~

you.

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