Tuesday, January 28

Untitled

I have lost readers by the hundreds over the years, so my writing is getting worse. I keep attempting short story after short story, and I hate them all. None of them are anything to me. I shall most certainly die alone, with nothing published, and not having any children, and no favour returned to all the great literature I have read; and I am so sad and so angry that it makes my stomach and my head ache. Pete Seeger died today and I see what he had done, and compare it to what I have done. It is all too nothing. I hate myself and I have every cause to because I have failed—and am failing over and over—at the only thing I give a damn about.

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