On the days when I’m not writing I get anxious that I’ve lost my command of language, that next time I try words will fail me. After reading millions of words written by other people, my own always seem inept, squeezed in my brain like sheep in a pen, baaing for attention, but when I open the gates for them, they scatter across the pastures of my mind, meaningless.
How will I ever call them back and line them up in the right order to tell the stories that I want to tell?
All That Jazz 
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