No, No, No, You’re Not Alone!

This is it.
Writing, reading, voice, meaning, clarity, structure, and only all beauty. You’ll find it inside you, again and again if you bother to look, or just step the fuck aside from trying to control things, and let it all happen for real.
These people did not write the song — but for all that they are, and all they can sink themselves into and through it and feel it, they almost might as well have done.
Because it’s a voice, and a true one.
One interpretation of the story. And your story, the one that you’re writing and living and dying, your story is just like this too.
You could choose to make it this way — or that.
A beat to die for, a drumming that pace it, your story speed and slow and bide its time and become so fucking urgent it threaten to overtake your heart itself, right up through the moment it stop.
The mood, a violin that dance and sway and hold you in its endless aching loveladen arms, only rolling unfolding kissstory caress you, an ocean of feel to ride on, now save you from drowning completely.
And a voice, not just words, not just this one and that one and others you choose, but that sparkling moment of clarity — that cleanest and clearest, the thinnest most fragile glassbreaking that sing as it speak of its living and dying, the whole thing floating there in its love and its filth and its tragedy caught in its making.
This is it.
This is where you learn to write or you don’t. It’s all here, around us and in us and through us, and if you can’t feel the whole world inside and outside and all through and around you at once, how will you ever know how it feels to write that one perfect sparkling moment, how will you know life, how will you ever be what you already are and how will you ever become it?
This is it.
Now just fucking write, and don’t stop.
This is it.
Because soon you will die, and the whole thing better have mattered.
This is it.

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