Half the time I look at it with the intention to continue editing it, and my brain just goes, "Nuh uh" and switches off.
Yep, that's why I'm not writing. My brain switched off after cramming out a 350 page novel. It just went 'well, I've done my part, I'm off to Hawaii, see ya'.
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Why should I leave this green-floored cell,
Roofed with blue air in which we dwell,
Unless outside its guarded gates,
Long, long desired, the Unearthly waits
Strangeness that moves us more than fear,
Beauty that stabs with tingling spear,
Or Wonder, laying on one's heart
That finger-tip at which we start
As if some thought too swift and shy
For reason's grasp had just gone by? C.S. Lewis
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