Yet it seems that until some time ago I wrote better, forever in my limits of course.
I can not explain the inverse relationship between writing skills and ability to live. Maybe when they are m'invento only things to alleviate the loneliness and when they are not only alive and intensely enough.
If I return to write better it will mean I'll be worse?
Or maybe it's the intolerance of the true muse?
I do not know, now I hate to spread bad my thoughts on this slice of the monitor.
go down in the cellar, is much more fun.
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