Fresh paper. Slightly chewed, but a sufficiently full pen. Mostly steady hand. Fingers capable of manipulating the aforementioned pen. And there is something unsaid, perhaps unthought...
...i struggle to form the lines and dots which you have just read, are still reading. Each word is nothing grander than a bargain-rate illusion - a puff air of heavily made-up to appear more attractive, more worthy of your attention. But in reality, these pretty, vibrant, often angry words that pretend to fill every page in this notebook evaporate and are reclaimed by the very air from which they were stolen. In essence, my words convey nothing. No meaning. No truth. No deception. I suffer their inadequacies.
For every hour of sleep lost, nothing was gained. All my frustration, hours spent sorting through a lifetime's worth of random thoughts and mostly useless ideas, enduring the pulsing throb of recollection -- memories that had dulled little (if at all) since their birth -- only to produce the meaningless scribble of a perverse mind. How I shimmer with the proud superiority of an ARTIST! A woman seeing, with they eyes of a true visionary, her mind reflected on the pages smeared with ink. As I near the end of another book, having traveled not nearly as far as I had hoped, I indulge in a brief review of these insightful essays, which PROVE my objective intellect, or so I thought!
Instead, i found a few moments of shining clarity, surrounded by abusive manipulation, serving only to repeat...reiterate...reassess a singular truth. The entirety of this book has been plagiarized. I plagiarize myself, constantly. It is my most inexhaustible skill.
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