I started writing stories of death and destruction in middle school, mocking them as I did, because it seemed as though all anyone wanted was the darkness. Those were the good stories. Kill your comedy and ready that same hand to wipe your eyes.
But now I know why the dead bird sings. With all this craft talk of tensions and stakes, what stakes are greater than life and death?
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The slaying of bad habits requires an excess of something else to do.
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