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Sitting in my apartment, and listening to "Quicksand" by Bowie, drinking a Sierra Nevada, smoking a fag - I was strangely at peace. I had just cried my silly dramatic whining dirge (but oh I FEEL it every time). I went to my computer to write it - my lifelong purge mechanism.
He had just left.
For some reason, the thought came into my head: if I am absolutely nothing else, I am an artist.
Here in the light of day, telling you this - it sounds mad.
Then the phone rang.
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