I’m almost done with a project I’ve been working on since the beginning of summer. I hate writing, I really do, but at almost thirty two I don’t think you can change what you are, I wouldn’t even know where to start, and this Book that will be the most honest artistic attempt I’ve ever drafted has fucked with my mind. People underestimate writing, and few really take the plunge. I was given something to sleep, relax, and ended up waking up and I was still dreaming, punched the wall in my sleep state, woke up confused; the bleeding truth of the matter is that even with yourself, we’re all alone. Good luck and goodnight.
Adventures In American Writing 