The writing day drains me again. I feel physically like I’ve run a half marathon — and I’ve done that and remember how I felt afterward. I also feel like I finished an important project at work, one that consumed my time and thinking. I feel, too, like I’ve been at a funeral, by a grave in the rain, and now I’m back home, changing clothes, reflecting on life and death, change and emotions, and I feel like I’ve been waiting for someone who never showed.
A good writing day, I judge it, even though so much remains to be written.
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