Do you have a tattered notebook you carry with you everywhere?
Bulging with napkins, receipts, and other riffraff you've scribbled upon in moments of random whimsy, does it exude messy brilliance like an understated bohemian poet?
Has it, in capturing those flickering moments of clarity you absolutely could not afford to lose, become a battered treasure like a childhood toy or blanket?
Do you ever look back over those fragments, so genius in the moment, and realize they're a load of bollocks and crap?
Don't worry. If I were embarrassed I would have kept them there.
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