Sometimes, notthing came out. I was a bulimic purging an empty stomach. I was frustrated by the thought of a dry spell. Surely, it was an impediment to the glory of production...
Then this came out...
Grab the linoleum cover of your existential being. Release it into the languid dream of futural consciousness. This is the benchmark of progress. This is propulsion of the self against the viscious tides of deontological caps to the self will.
The fight is a necessary consequence to the liberation of the soul.
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