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  • Before, I was bursting with stories. So consumed with all the possibilities in the world that I wanted to express them all. Since, every time I sit down to write another story, the only one that comes out is my own.

    So this is my story. Hopefully by writing it I can excise it. Let the last years of my life spill out in pieces that can then be patched together in the semblance of a story. For a while I felt too close to it, the pieces were too jagged and my skin was still pink and healing.

    Now, it is time.
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