It really bothers me that I’ve been told many times that I do not have a voice in my writings. Is it possible that the voice of my stories—cold and flat—is the truth, and the voice I exercise in reality is not? Damn that teenage resolution of stoicism, which at the time I misinterpreted anyway. Strange how one can screw up one’s life based on whim. Stranger still that one can intelligently be aware of it the whole time, and yet do nothing to recover.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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