You smile. No, it is not fatal.
I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.
The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
I have done, this year, what I said I would: overcome my fear of facing a blank page day after day, acknowledging myself, in my deepest emotions, a writer, come what may.