Practice. Practice. Practice.
Photos bring me little comfort. As I stare at the photographs on my cork-board I wonder with discontent, is this all that will be left of me? I sit here and waste away. Writing for no one or everyone, allowing my shoulders to curve inward, ruining my posture for all the years to come. The sky outside calls to me, but I ignore it for no good reason. I sit here with my distractions, technology that may or may not rot my brain and stain my insides with cancerous cells. All around me is nonsense, material that won’t last, waste.