I want nothing of heart: professionalism, veneer.
I've been thinking.
Yes, what it means to be a writer: in the mawkish sense. It's an ugly word full of nasty implications for the heart!
Did you put that in? This is only me, perhaps in the drab of secondarity, foretelling an aching skull. The topmost portion, the brink! Aching, sore. Apologizing daily, looking about: the sophistry in a sound place of love. Regardless of synecdoches.
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