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January 23, 2016

It's become physically painful, like something  has corroded to the point where, if a mere wisp of wind touches it, it will fall off, not even with a loud crisp shattering crack but with as much impact as ash finally falling off the end of a long-unattended cigarette dangling from the fingers of a poseur smoker.  The panic in my stomach, the jolts in my heart, the stabs to my temples, the tears and the sleeplessness, the fatigue, the hypersensitivity, the combativeness, the claustrophobia and agoraphobia, all of a sudden making sense:  If I don't write more, I will die.