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nothing to see here

Beirut, November 24 2017

Only three real days left at work. Then, six proper days in Paris. Then, unknown.

I am aching. For something that never was.

I keep talking about a state of peace, but it evades me.

Something seems to clench at my throat, refusing to let go.

I long to be fictional. To cease to exist, to cease to have this three dimensionality, this reality that entails all these feelings I cannot bear to have anymore.

It is not true that when you are sad you can write.

I can't write a single thing. Nothing. My fingers are limp and my heart yearns for the sea, for the waves.

Perhaps I'll go walking.

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