January One, two thousand seventeen.
Not much in the way of expectation, only the sheer and utter wish to move ever forward.
What won't I do...
That has become, my proverbial question.
Marry my choices to my intention to my elbow grease.
Nail my courage to its sticking place.
Ink, oil, thread, and words.. all mine for the taking.
Begin.
Not much in the way of expectation, only the sheer and utter wish to move ever forward.
What won't I do...
That has become, my proverbial question.
Marry my choices to my intention to my elbow grease.
Nail my courage to its sticking place.
Ink, oil, thread, and words.. all mine for the taking.
Begin.
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