I have been lax as of late on the creative progress; I could partially blame the fact that my Illustrator trial ended, but I have had ample opportunity to acquire the Master Collection and failed on that front for weeks (due to laziness and similar character flaws).

EP (the novel's working title) has snowballed into a full-fledged franchise; if I can pull this off (and my arrogance and ambition scream that I can), it will be a masterpiece. And after all, it is only arrogance if you're wrong about how Great you are.

However, the main reason for my absence, for my faceless distractions: I want my moments to myself. To put them into words, to craft them as chapters, matching the dialogue and description to Paul's measure of sanity at whatever point in the chronology, editing them to fit the characters' motivations: it feels like a betrayal of their beauty. These are moments no one else will have from my perspective; Paul can go fuck himself, these moments will lie solely in my psyche, for my senses to re-experience in the language of the physical, not the verbal.

(But the eraser of time comes too quickly, leaving only remnants of the past behind. I forget not by choice, but because of a mental state violently unaware of the degradation surrounding it, and so, eventually, these moments must be transcribed before they are only leftover pencil lines on a mostly empty page.

For now, however, they are mine, and mine alone.)
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