My life is nothing, just means to support my love for writing.
I don't even live anymore, my body is just a vessel there to observe, to exist within my obsession for my work.
Do you know what I do at work every day? I write, constantly clinging onto this habit of mine. I haven't properly paid attention to my work in months, ever since I started the whole ordeal.
This isn't life, I almost feel inhuman how little attention I pay to life.
I've been eaten.
Do you know what I do at work every day? I write, constantly clinging onto this habit of mine. I haven't properly paid attention to my work in months, ever since I started the whole ordeal.
This isn't life, I almost feel inhuman how little attention I pay to life.
I've been eaten.
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