I can't fucking write. That's what I think when I sit here trying to find something "interesting" to write for this blog. Not that anyone reads this anymore, but in the respects of therapy I feel like I should keep it up.
I used to write a lot. Like not just non-fiction. A lot of fiction stories. They weren't too bad, for my age. No juvenilia of Louisa May Alcott or the Bronte's, but not too bad. Can't even start a sentence for a story these days. Totally beyond me; no longer inclined toward my spontaneous, imaginative self. I don't let myself go really, I think. That's a shame.
Wuthering Heights From Cover to Cover in Sagunt
5 hours ago