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April 8, 2002
A passage from my offline journal dated April 8, 2002: Is this the daily bread of the writer? The writing? Our prayer is the never ending dialogue in alphabetic. Is there nourishment in our words? Maybe for those who consume them but what about us who produce them? We gain by loss. We give up the internal and paste it on the page. Is that how the writer lives? Could s/he be starved by being clogged? With no means to produce can the writer simply live with the nourishment of ingestion or will they die of saturation? End of entry