Sometimes you write things you don’t want to. You want your pen to move in a different direction, but you don’t have the energy, or the focus, or the strength of character to keep it in its track, so you let it loose, say Don’t go far in a half-hearted voice and watch the pen run off into the under-growth and start scratching. You know something is going to get dug up. Something you’ll want to get off your hands later, something that has hot, red eyes. But it’s too late, ink is getting spilled.

from Blessed are the Menial Chores

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