Pages From The Filling Station
I sat. I wrote. Page on page on page. Brain and fingers bellow. Striving for purpose to emotion. Striving for value, this interchangeable life. Striving. For what, again, pauper raconteur? Sing purpose all you like. Purpose requires no recognition. Purpose begs only for action, in return, and action wants for naught. Action screams I am my own reward.
Value, then? Whose?
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