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Seriously guys, I think I'll have to stop this here. I just doubt I'll ever be able to finish this story. It wasn't well planed from the beginning and I think that shows. I just have no idea where I could go with it that wouldn't feel like I was just writing to the word count.

This is what happens when you're finally a little bit happy: you lose your drive. That's why so many artists are depressed. Many of them are wounded. To calm themselves and stay the emotional bleeding, they create. But when the wound has healed, the pain faded with time and the memory yellowed with age, nothing is ever normal again. You lack the drive, the survival instinct, to create.

That was rather poetic, wasn't it? I do apologise for this but as of now, I'm stopping work on this story. I won't take it down just in case but this may well be the end of the line. At least on my end. Feel free to take the rest of it in whatever direction you want, even if you just use it as a writing exercise.

Hey, there's an idea. Nothing I could ever do would please everyone. Everyone has their own version of this story in their heads. I'd love to see it brought out.

I have a lot of my own work to do but I may be around from time to time. Don't forget me, okay? :love:

~MJV