I write a story to become someone else. I write to enjoy a world unlike my own. To escape this world was my goal, but with all these lives I have lived their voices still circle my head. If what is real is dictated hy what I care about then am I killing things I care about when I write? What if I control the fate of another whom I never knew existed? Do my characters live another place somewhere far away? Or are they me trapped in a device of my own making.
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