Fear collects all my original ideas and crams them in a suede drawstring pouch. The damn thing scratches at the back of my throat. It is no secret Fear prefers the baby food consistency of consensus. Easier to chew and leaves not a single impression. Each day I peel back a layer to reveal a flaw; a contaminating grain of truth, and play with impulses not fully formed. Fear is driven off long enough for me to open my bag of unacceptable bits and marvel at their ragged and filthy charm.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 
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