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There are these times when I fade into myself.

It’s like I’m the only one alive, but all other details are important — the cold numbness in my fingertips from air-conditioning in September, the crayon-red smudges left on book pages from my painted fingernails (why does that happen, anyway?), the grinding of my backbone into the wall behind me, the distant rattling of desks and chairs… Every little insubstantial thing becomes important, every dead little detail, while breathing things with warmth and blood suddenly don’t exist.

I should be able to write anything in times like these.

Instead, time seems irrelevent, like I don’t need to put anything down in ink, because I have all the time in the world. Eventually, of course, these times end, and I’m stuck with nothing left to write. I dream of being on the road again; I’m feeling restless. I want to be that girl on the postcard that you write home about.

Catch me if you can.

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