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  • Virginia Woolf knew what she was talking about.

    To some, a room of one's own is so much more than a room. It is solitude. It is sanity. It is creativity. It is freedom. It is a door to someplace else where thoughts pour onto paper or canvas or into some other bucket where they will be nurtured into blossom.

    And the absence of such a space equals frustration and muteness, a constant exhaustion caused by trying to steal minutes of silence, seconds of solitude in someone else's room when it is convenient for others. No room means whithering and intermittent whimpers.
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