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Making myself write today because I listened to the astrology reading from the real expensive famous guy that said I was trapped in a cushy prison and had to find my voice - and deal with my mystic psychic sensitivity. blah blah blah.
I dreamt of princes harry and William last night. it kind of made me laugh to recall it. ah, boring dreams. boring writing. they were still in their tiff and harry was having a party and I became allies with both of them but felt I betrayed harry a bit but was still trying to give back the pot vape pen I'd gleefully borrowed from the reprobate entitled rich friend rolling on all the drugs. I exited the dream as I was in charge of taking care of the little girl on the beach.
and Oakland. all the goodbyes and the turmoil, and I never want to return. that surprises me a tiny bit as well as not at all.
it's much more fun when you feel compelled to write because you have an idea that is pushing on your brain so much you must. I've fallen into the pattern of minding the work shop virtually every day and falling into bed at the first glimpse of late evening. I'm ugly and old and read ridiculous books about time traveling sex fiends.
Thinking of my Oakland lull, it just reminds me of the cat I cared for and the sad sad exit. I'm at the corner window of my new prison, and get to view the wind and the birds and the neighbors.
maybe tomorrow.
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