I just wanted to jot something down that was worthy and genius, but typically when I set out without a clear plan my brain plays tricks on me.
I start thinking about everything except brilliant literaray accomplishments. Things like tennis and mountain biking and pizza flipping and bread baking and dinosaurs and piano playing. Real life things that mean nothing to posterity or other people of elevated intelligence and distinct taste.
They just mean things to me.
And how un-genius is that.
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