THE TRITE DETAILS OF MY LIFE ARE YOURS TO ENJOY
Well, it’s finished. What’s finished? My terrible novel, of course.
I know it’s terribly unimportant to anyone else but me, and that it should be unimportant to me as well, but I so rarely finish what I start, that I can’t help but be a little please with myself. Of course, it’s so late, and there’s nobody reading this, so I feel I’ve every right to be a little smug, here in the perfect isolation of obscurity.
See you next year.
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