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Unfinished.

I have brought more work upon myself. I could pretend like what I did didn’t happen, but I can’t. I must write two of these today, yet I can’t seem to find the time to finish even one. I am out of breath, stealing five minutes before I must go to places where I’m needed.

I slipped away to have a moment to myself, but here I am, writing to you. I can’t escape it; this consistency has almost become a curse. It’s the only constant—death and this blog.

Now, the aches in my stomach begin. This isn’t a pleasant night. But I keep writing. I am sick, but I keep writing. I don’t know what else to do. I keep writing. I have places to be, yet I keep writing.

I’m hiding away, trying to find a pocket of time before 12. I can hear my work waiting for me. I have to go back soon. But this must end—then the weight will lift from my chest. It’s there, a nagging pain throughout. I welcome it. I can let it all flow out through this.

Unfinished or finished, they live through my words. It will end as this does. Someday.

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