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Writing

In out, in out. I can hear every motion of my body as I breathe. The creaking of muscles echoes through my head with a distant thump from far below. I gulp and the sound of liquid being squeezed down my throat reminds me of delicate waterfalls on highland plateaus; the crackle of my eardrums like splashes on rock.

I have been reading and consuming such quantities of viscus theorems, that my head is humming with thoughts. Most of which are not my own, but which form in that home of my head, like a blossoming garden that has filled every corner of the greenhouse; flowers pressing up against the once clean glass. The pollen fills what little air there is left with a haze of sticky dust and a heady scent of… [Read more of: The Essay of an Artist]

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