Reading Stephen King's book, On Writing, was like being cornered and forced to have a long, drawn out mental enema.
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And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being.
I didn't have that much confidence. Maybe it looks that way. I'm glad it does.