There’s something in the water. And everybody’s drinking it.
I did it. I reached the door. Now, I regret everything.
If you’re not writing, then you’re not a writer. There. I said it. Fight me.
Getting to the door is more difficult than I might have thought originally.
The time loop seems to repeat about every five minutes these days. It’s only a matter of time before we reach mass capacity.
Here’s a quick sonnet. Enjoy!
It’s hard to determine a picture from a single puzzle piece.
Sartre writes that hell is other people. Obviously, he had never been here.
Something big’s going to happen today. Wait.