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I want to live openly and honestly with nothing to hide. I’m not sure that I’m living that way now. Reading a book for more than twenty minutes makes me so sad that I want to cry. Who am I hiding from? I don’t know what I’m going to do in one week, or two. I can’t answer a simple question at a party—one that I used to be so good at answering. “What kind of fiction do you write?” I don’t know. So apologetic when I speak of it. Am I hiding from myself? Maybe I don’t write fiction anymore. Maybe I don’t read fiction. Maybe I don’t write poetry. Maybe I don’t read poetry. Maybe I don’t read or write anything. Maybe I’ve forgotten how or why I ever did either. Maybe I don’t know who I am or where I live.

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