My very words flow out awkwardly, like a stumbling baby on its first
few steps. No matter how many years it may be, when I read again what
I wrote, it sounds wrong. It sounds clumsy. And when I read it again,
at a different place with a different air, suddenly it means
something. And it's old and it's new. It reinspires, it regrew. At
best, I have to beat the rotational cycle of learn and forget. I have
to learn, and grow it. I have to feed my idea's and transform it. or
else it'd die a slow death, in stagnation, then decay. And when I find
it again, the useless cycle continues.
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