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January 5, 2011
What can you write about when each one of your days is exactly like the one that came before it, and the one that will follow?

You can draw inspiration from your rich inner landscapes, but where does all that content come from? From art and culture of course - perpetuating the endless cycle of nothing-original-is-ever-written-anymore.

And yet. There is such an abundance of content available, and we have so little time. Even if I read for hours every day and lived to 100, I would die an ignorant old woman.

Isn't that a little overwhelming?