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The story, Madelyn

The sky is full of churches, stretching over vast expanses. I agree, and I don't, with church. But that seems wrong and ignorant somehow, for them to be so large, and for there to be so many.

Hysteria bred of religious fervor. Were we meant to experience this, or is it a reaction of our nervous temperament.

I am never calm unless I have written. Yet most of the time I absolutely cannot bear to write. I don't understand it.

There are so many things I want to do. I don't know if I want to do any of them. I don't understand the difference between happiness and ambition.

I cannot bear to write because I cannot bear to taint my stories with ambition. Yet they are not very meaningful if I cannot intend to share them in some way, or at least promise them a chance of excellence through the fine-toothed comb of an editor.

Today I have wished that I was in Austin. I wished it so hard I was bodily thrilled, as though I was about to teleport. I wish. You know what I really did today though, in my imagination, I visited the vintage clothing shops and sat in a coffee shop for a long time and browsed around town and saw the graffiti and grungy buildings.

I wondered if I could be a barista and a poor writer living in a hovel. I wonder I will always have to be so darn rich and care about having things look nice. I wonder if there's another option.

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