Dear August: Time and Time again

Dear August, I stop mid-sentence, resting my ink-stained fingers against my head. The words, so eager and ready to find their place on the page before me, are forced to hold back and wait for another excruciating second, before I pick up my pen again. Even then my own stern voice rings too loudly through my head: do I have time for this? There is a sheer endless amount…
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