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I sat at the table. A typewriter in front of me, lukewarm coffee inside of a rusty coffee tin in my hand, and a letter opener beside me with stacks of letters from strangers who seemed to need inspiration. It never felt this hard before. Before, I could do amazing things. I could create magical worlds and interesting people. I’d wake up every morning with a new idea. Now, it’s different, not how it was before. Now, there are no magical worlds, no interesting people. Just me, staring at a typewriter, holding my lukewarm coffee. Just me, hoping for those worlds to reappear.

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