Vodka Plus Essays Comments

Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.

'I've indulged in reprobation, ' I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. 'I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.'
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