And so it is, not starting now, it is. I'm a hotel man. At a desk and a computer with a most minimal of work tasked to me.
And so it is. I must make my own work now. I must create, I must write, I must do what feels right again, not what feels easy. Not droning on the Internet for hours, no--God, no--give me the strength. I must write. Even this, now, the pencil to paper feels infinitely more, infinitely swell, infinitely better than the hours before in the abyss online. This is what I needed, this is what I always need to do here at this desk. I need to write.
I need to feel this ache in my hand again.
