The Old Familiar Places
I can't write. There I said it. Nothing flows easily and I don't know what to do. It seems as though the happiness of finally leaving the hellhole I grew up in, state and all, has put a strain on my creativity.
My sketches, my stories, they're all suffering.
I wonder if suffering is part of art, or if it's just part of life.
"Ich will ficken, nie mehr das alte leid."
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