I wrote a one-line draft — one must endure — with a sense I would not complete it. I searched for films on loneliness, for writing is a solitary task. I made a habit of trying hard, but never particularly hard enough. I avoided realisations, you see, I feared breaking the enchantment of my ignorance. The vow of one who fears life(?): to long for nothing and to surrender in advance.

If I was away in body, I would still be here wouldn’t I?

I taught myself I had conjured desolation in a stagnant decade of self-pity.
And yet I wondered why, years later, I could not I bid it leave.

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