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This day

Was not one I liked particularly much. It was a slog through minutes and the feeling that nothing quite was right. The studio was messy and in a way that made me distracted and angry. And my own body felt thick and inhospitable. My brain matching. I had strung a series of good days and made myself feel impermeable to sadness

My father's memorial is a week from today. I think that is why the air felt chill, the food seemed tasteless in my mouth and too heavy in my belly. I didn't go anywhere but up to arrange bits on paper on my desk. And when that task seemed too tedious and my teeth started to ache and I glimpsed my oldness in the mirror, all the bits and bobs of sadness became to much. So I read a spy thriller which failed to entertain me and I realized I was bored with my own self. With being me. And I told myself that I would write no sentences today and I'd leave dishes in the sink to boot.

But that would be letting the devil silence to win.

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