the lost man chronicles
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the insatiable incorrigible within

Sometimes I am so exquisitely pleased with myself after I have completed a particularly fluid piece that for a moment I am at peace and resigned to apathy.

Yet, somehow irkingly, achingly I am compelled to dive back in, propelled by compunction, riled by the guilt that I am no longer churning by the midnight glow of the internal lamp burning to alight my scrawl. And so appalled by the languor, my soul drives forward into the all-consuming throes of creativity once again.

And although for a minute I might have sighed languidly with prejudicial pride, the serenity soon subsides when my constitution quickly turns from hermetic Jekyl into bursting Hyde—hounding me, howling, demanding and commanding me to peddle the grindstone faster with each dawning hour.

Ah, how insatiably incorrigible is the power of creative being!.

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