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The stars leaned close, and some lost their hold and fell.
The heady rhythm of earth.
A face-punching, pint-spilling, Happy Mondays octopus-imitating flappazoid.
I am the second most inactive writer living, and the third most discouraged.
I've only only ever felt truly sad once before,
from 1973 to 2004.
The middle of the afternoon is the saddest of time, because it is neither right after lunch nor right before supper, it is not time to have a drink yet, and if you call someone on the phone, the phone just rings.
The new faux pas.
Take up space.