Sweat beads on your brow, something pushes at your temples. It rises in your throat like a sickness. Lightning strikes a chord somewhere in the depths of your soul. That's how it's been for the past few days. I've been hit by lightning.
I starred at the ominous blank page and traced the blue lines with my index finger. I arranged the black pen and pencil on my desk and smoothed out my writing surface, brushing a few pebbles of dirt onto the wood floor. Then I got an idea. I scribbled fervently for a moment and sat back triumphantly. These are those thoughts and interworkings of my mind.
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