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A journal for daily writing sits open on my desk, its pages slowly filling with morning thoughts, scribbled grocery lists, and the occasional half-baked poem. Some days I write three sentences; other days I can't stop. The ink smudges where my coffee mug rested, and the spine is starting to crack from being shoved into bags and pulled out on train rides. It doesn't judge when I skip a Tuesday or write the same complaint four different ways. What started as a self-improvement experiment has beco…