This writing thing is hard.
Not hard in the sense that you need a degree or a piece of paper from some august purveyor of platitudes. No, it's hard as in carving out the moments that are real. The moments laden with the fatty, succulent, suck it off your fingers and savor it, cooked just right results, where everything seems to flow from your fingers onto the page in just the right tenor and pace.
I tried to force those moments today and they gave me the finger. They told me to come back later.
And so I shall.
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