I utter to myself: write a post every day for a while, see how it feels. The end of the day appears, things are different. Parts of it are already drifting off.
It's not what used to draw me to it, the feeling of recounting, of looking back and trying to express the recent, though that is always a part.
Waking up and having a modest purpose seems to drive some other thing, also. Its absence is the otherwise. As if I'm trying to recapture the pleasure of conversation.
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