Lamenting broken hearts and lost genius. Silent tears. Your head is in another place, another time. Words bubble from your lips, excited, obsessive, but your sentences are twisted like rose vines, and you have repeated yourself so many times now that the conviction seems false. You are full of a single daydream, and no matter what you are doing your mind flutters back to the tragedy and the poetry. Above all, the resounding thought remains: can you write something that beautiful in the next five years?
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