There was a time... when writing came so effortlessly when words flowed so beautiful from the tip of my pen onto cram line paper, but that time has past and I'm left thinking is there anything at least particularly special about me. Without my writing... what else is there to see, to look at and admire and think that its beautiful. Without my writing I'm nothing, but just a fading ugly stained on a forgotten piece of fabric. You were my first love, and now i lost you.
How could I?
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