Well, it's been while since I've written anything (of value), so obviously swamped with life and work. But when does work become your life? What is your life as you define it?
Is life a set of disappointments? Is it all our childhood dreams being crushed? We are still kids after all, growing into years of disappointment and bitterness. Is to be an adult the hollow husk of the inner (sometimes former) child we were? Is the shell of bitterness the adult we're suppose to become? Are we to fill our hollow selves with our secrets and alcohol? Am I going to be like my mother and look for old friends in the obits?
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