Yesterday evening I took the first bath I’d had in at least four to five years. I’d intended to read the entirety of the Ethan Frome book, but by the ninth page or so, I was relaxing in a daydream of my own creativity. After which, I shot four rolls of film in my room. The fuscous was of lighting, and I had a whole roll, which focused on the human
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Just some constructive criticism.
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Perhaps I am not a writer then.
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