In every broken heart is a fissure to fill with what you learned. Every matter of the heart from then after receives a fuller love.

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Tonight you spent 45 minutes writing an exposition on longevity and its impact on so-termed “quality of life”. You wrote for 45 minutes in order to determine that only one sentiment mattered. Then you scrapped what you wrote and wrote this instead.

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This weekend I began reading some “scholarly” essays in casual pursuit of following the curriculum of a college-level anthropology class on gender and sex. Finishing the first reading, an essay from a 1970s issue of Feminist Studies, I felt my brain struggling to keep up with a style and complexity of writing that I’m no longer familiar with. As compared to almost any other form of casual reading—non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, blogs, you name it—academic writing is difficult.

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I spent the night in Oakland at a cooking class taught by Phil Gelb. Five of us cozied up in his kitchen and made food-magic happen. Pumpkin gnocchi in a walnut sage cream sauce, roasted beets, simple vegetable soup, and deep-fried tempeh cutlets cooked in marsala wine. Phil set out homemade cashew ricotta cheese—divine— and improv jazz wafted about his compact urban loft.

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For the past fifty days, I’ve been writing at night. I am often not functional in the morning, and the brief time I do claim in the early hours often goes toward reading. And so I’ve found myself writing these entries late, frequently from my bed, as I struggle to keep my eyes open for just one more sentence. And while some nights I manage to write something I feel is of worth, more and more the past several weeks I’ve noticed a lack of inspiration when I need it most.

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