I feel obligated. To write. And to walk. Every day. For the
rest of my life. Makes me feel. As if
I’m doing. Exactly what I was born to do. Can’t remember a day. When I didn’t
write or walk. It’s no different than breathing. I have to write and walk and
breathe. In order to stay alive. Maybe these are my primary and positive addictions.
Even ahead of loving and dreaming. Maybe
it comes down. To being addicted to life. Makes me wonder. If that’s the most
wonderful sickness. Sure beats Alzheimer’s or depression or alcoholism. --Jim Broede
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