I’m seeking justification in my judgements
I write. it’s because I’m a wriiii-ter.
I am not sure how to deal with what I see. I am just a person on a bench with a notebook. I’d paint it if I could copy the scene, but I lack talent. My strokes do not render my vision. I do not know how else to deal with it besides. . . this.
To let the vision go by me without copying it, I cannot. I am cursed to be a copycat, forever scrambling after prophets. I do not know what else I am besides this,
this is not an excuse
this is the truth.
I am not making excuses
This is just how it is—it is how I see it, I cannot account for anything besides my own eyes. Your eyes scan my account now.
It is what it is, just words on a page, as without form as a stroke of color across the canvas. But it’s something, damn it. It’s something.

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