Many thoughts racing through my mind, one hundred miles per hour, kilometers per second, feet per foot, never ceasing, always active, of life and love and creation, to manifest art in such a way that it defines the essence of my being, explains who I am deeper than I ever could do in simple English, or Spanish, or spoken word, and so I feverishly jot down loose thought to paper, to digital parchment, to remember those fleeting ideas that may or may not have purpose, but to forget is definite uselessness, a pity, a shame, but to write them is to preserve them, and so those thoughts collect dust and pile high, higher still, kept secret when they should really be shared, viewed, other pairs of eyes to glance them and more than likely brush them off but still it is better than no eyes ever glancing them, a transference of raw thought, perhaps a seed to grow within another's mind?
I am in the process of writing a novel, and for better or worse I WILL complete it, one way or another.
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