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Story No. 32383
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I never know what to write about. Cursed writer's block! It makes me angry. Angry enough to
rise above the petty constraints of my everyday existence and paint the sky with my undying love for you. Barring that, I'll settle for
a glass of warm milk. It would seem that sleep is my only release. I'm just going to pass out. Maybe tomorrow, things will be
better after the winds stop and I am able to pick my laundry out of the tree-tops in the neighborhood. I hope that my neighbors don't
don't get the wrong idea. People are so judgemental
of serial killers.
