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I am writing a novel that is rewriting me.

 

Death is the only true magician.

 

Dreams need to be ripped open, their layers discarded like gift-wrap in order to come true.

 

Happiness is not created. It is uncovered.

 

Words should be harvested like crops.

 

Being mindful makes my mind full.

 

Breath is a gift that stokes the fire of life.

 

I am human. I know nothing.

 

 

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