Writing is a good excuse for me to get out of a bunch of things: exercise, cleaning something, organizing something, yardwork. Time is suspended while I unravel some twisted train of thought. The significance of what I am writing doesn't matter. It could be how much I love my pillow or how much I hate bigots. The subject matter always holds me hostage. So by the time I am finished, it usually means I have run out of time for anything unpleasant, such as sweeping something. I'm ok with that.
The usual plus ping pong.
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