When you write, you’re growing a garden you love within yourself.
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The world, I felt, had a magnetic power to suck my attention away from what I actually wanted to focus on.
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The praise I hoped to receive pleased me as long as one draw on a cigarette pleased me.
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The geography of the mind is infinitely large and infinitely varied, and there are no boundaries to its darkest lands other than the despair and anxiety and rage they provoke.
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