“In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning, day after day.”
“Writers aren't exactly people...they're a whole lot of people trying to be one person.”
A quiet, stolen moment. Darkness. In a familiar place. A familiar feeling. Emotion and depth pouring forth in a spasm. Welling up and spilling out.
A different day. A different hat. For awhile it fits well. Worn and comfortable, the escape sustains itself for a time. Something else....more than nostalgia....some nearly tangible element of feeling strums across the chords of his soul. Eventually the mask slips and the awareness of the truth returns. The truth that this is not an exit. This is not a ride which you will disembark. The outward visage remains for the world to see. The turmoil within begins anon.
The dichotomy of detachment and distance paired with unwavering acceptance of impulse and desire. Two sides of the same coin flipped over and over again in the tumblers of fatalism and the maelstrom of madness.
In non-vague/ambiguous wording on healthcare.....
SJWs in SF: Sad Puppy version
33 minutes ago