There’s something magical in how words are strung together. They’re melded and woven, intertwined and hammered. What started out as a garbled, chaotic mess of thoughts and letters, swirling and tumbling over one another, has become something lucid, something real. Fragments pieced together into a whole. Strings spun into fine cloth. Notes mashed into a symphony. Words into sentences and then paragraphs, paragraphs and then pages, pages and then novels. And then from these novels comes pouring all that is beautiful and all that is horrible in this world. The ugly, the scarred, the vindicated, the freed—all comes rushing out in what becomes a torrential downpour of living.

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