outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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06.30.03, monday morning

The fiction I hate is most often mine. I think, This is false. Everything sounds unbelievable. She wouldn’t speak like that. That is too coincidental. Too calculated. Just today I read something I wrote months ago; I hated it. It was a review of a book I liked but didn’t keep around. I knew, ultimately, that it wasn’t a book I wanted to write about. But I wrote it anyways; it was for work. I need to remember to write about people and places that I would love, ultimately, to have close and dear.


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