I thought of this as a post with three titles

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I'm not that busy lately. I noticed a certain pattern, though I'm not so sure if this is just personal, or what. Whenever I dream, I get up and write something. Then I knew I'm in for a treat. I'll write some things, poignant things, and leave them here, or in a file. It feels nice.

There are days when I regret about the day I wrote something and thought it would be a good thing to do lying in a hammock with a teacup and write. It was such an idealist of me not to think of pens drying up, or the teacup smothering the entire paper in a warm mess, or that I may really end up purchasing a hammock for my entire life.

This is not that day.