benign neglect.

I let myself go and and was brutally honest. I used phrases I barely understood myself. Memories I believed I had buried more effectively. Six thousand three hundred seventeen words.
I dealt with doubt head-on. Not only that: I embraced it. And it—doubt—reciprocated and hugged me back. Me and my words.
What else? Marginally relevant fragments of… fragments of what? Just fragments. They’ve found their way into the text, they thrived on the page. Texture was primordial. And key. G-minor.
Coffee stains on the printouts because I don’t smoke. My sweater says Just do it and do it I did. Loose structure. Free jazz? So I thought at the time.
Copying, no. But borrowing ideas—yes and I, for one, wouldn’t mind being plagiarised.
You read the first draft first and commented, “I like the typeface you used.”