(An Excerpt from a Short Essay)
Why is it so interesting when I write down my stream of consciousness like this? It's all merely gibberish that I just barley manage to haphazardly scribble down in a bemused frenzy. It tells no fascinating story of dragons, or drama, magic or scares, nor anything happy, or sad, or angry. It just simply is; and afterwards, it is hated and harshly criticized by me. Yet, I dare not toss any of my madness; I never know when it might come in handy. I may find my scribbling a useful reference.
Sometimes I write things, and all they are are bits and pieces of some of my ridiculous ramblings jaggedly cut and pasted upside down and backwards with the dullest of safety scissors and the thinnest of glues, into a semblance of sense.
Why is it so interesting when I write down my stream of consciousness like this? It's all merely gibberish that I just barley manage to haphazardly scribble down in a bemused frenzy. It tells no fascinating story of dragons, or drama, magic or scares, nor anything happy, or sad, or angry. It just simply is; and afterwards, it is hated and harshly criticized by me. Yet, I dare not toss any of my madness; I never know when it might come in handy. I may find my scribbling a useful reference.
Sometimes I write things, and all they are are bits and pieces of some of my ridiculous ramblings jaggedly cut and pasted upside down and backwards with the dullest of safety scissors and the thinnest of glues, into a semblance of sense.
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