Last time I was here, the novel was so clear. In the emotion, I knew what needed to be written, although I didn’t know how. This time, I feel the emotions again, but they haven’t compelled me to writing; they’ve compelled me to living — to confrontation and prayer and other such uncomfortable tasks.
I don’t know if or when the words will come back. I don’t know if they ever existed. They glimmered like a mirage, and then they were gone.

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