I feel old and contemplative in my bones. I desire energy from the sunshine. My skin has a paper quality to it.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is that it's hard to write a novel when the sun goes down and you've run out of candles. Especially when the title is done in finger paint.
Or maybe it's because those damn kids are on my lawn all the time and I'm running out of Tylenol.
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Let the answers flyyyyy
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