It's funny how actual sentences sometimes play in your mind, as if they're being spoken aloud by a narrator. Usually, my brain hosts a shifting thought salad of feelings, ideas and concepts: neat from the source, undiluted. Thoughts don't naturally take the form of words, but colours, feelings, notions, and knowledge. My raw material needs to be fractioned into something else before it can be understood by any other interface. When I write about the messages from In Here, they've been pre-distilled and fashioned to form proper sentences for export.
I’ve written about it before, but on many, many occasions over the past several months, one sentence keeps appearing in my head, pre-refined and ready to ship:
I'm so glad I don't drink any more.
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