Holly Black is Killing Me. (Figuratively Speaking)

There is a lump in my chest that makes it hard to breathe, to swallow.

Time speeds by, but my work stands still.  I steal time with the words of others because I cannot steal enough for my own. Rather than inspired, I am jealous & angry.  Rather than inspired, I am humbled.  Rather than inspired, I am struck dumb.


Not numb.

Raging – just as counterproductive.

What would I give for a good week? For more hours in a day?

(worse yet is the question:  should I even bother?)


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