Love. I love many things, and one of them is writing. I absolutely and always have loved to write. I recently found a journal entry from when I was nine saying how I want to be a writer (or a Marine biologist, president, prime minister, queen of england), but that is besides the point.
This has been a dream of mine for some time. This verb should come so easily to me, but the longing has diminished. I can't tell whether my obscure arrangement of words are doing me a favour or if they are a flaw. Do I continue procuring obscurity or do practice order?
Now that this thought is off and afloat, I can start my paper, due in 14 hours.
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