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Every once in a while, I spoil myself with terrible food. That’s not to say the food tastes awful—though sometimes that’s true. I mean terrible from the standpoint of what my brain thinks about what my belly wants. It’s a war that usually ends in a stalemate; my belly feels the pang, but my brain won’t condone the notion.

In the quiet, in the calm. That’s where I’m most at home. A world without sound would be a prison, but a world engulfed by furor and frenzy is no different. Have you ever felt disconnected from reality while simultaneously plowing right through it? Have you ever become a mindless drone? A robot? A synthetic man or woman?

Oh, this poor neglected blog of mine. It was inevitable. Summer provided me with a healthy break from school, but fall whipped me back into line. In so doing, it sapped my creativity and a bit of my appetite. I’ve been eating less than usual, but what I’ve been eating is pretty usual and unexciting. Thus, with little time and little inspiration, this blog has grown neglected.

It never used to be this complicated. Back in the day, I just slapped whatever title came to mind onto my story and considered it gold. Now though, after years of literary analysis and academic writing, I’ve grown too intellectual for my own good. As if being anal-retentive wasn’t bad enough, my perfectionism refuses to accept anything less than the quintessential title for any given work (which is especially challenging given that I’m not finished with my current short story, so finding a title that encapsulates its essence is virtually

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