It's late. Not super late, and actually on some nights I might consider this early, but this evening this hour qualifies as late. I want to go to bed but I also had the strong urge to write something so as I hit the top of the stairs I made a left into the office instead of a right into the bedroom. And then I sat in front of the computer, in the dark and staring at the screen with nothing to say.
When people say they have to write because they have no choice, and they're not lying or merely mimicking what they think a writer would say, sometimes you'll get the mental equivalent of the dry heaves and lurch and work because something wants to come out but the gut from which all literary "genius" issues forth is physically dry at that moment.
So, I'm sorry for taking up the last 45 seconds of your time dry heaving but at least I didn't puke on your shoes. Silver lining!
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