Wordflow

The words came slowly some days, slow like the last few drips from the coffee filter, the ones that inevitably ended up splatting with harsh hisses on the warm hotplate. He supposed there was a ruder analog involving urinary functions, but either way the point was that the entire process was glacial in its monumental annoyance.

The best he could hope for was a generous balance, those days where the words formed sentences and paragraphs as fast as he could think them up and type them out would somehow help him forget the dribbling afternoons where it was much easier to masturbate and take a long nap that bled into a sleep where he woke up, stunned and groggy, and the sun had already fled under the horizon.

Today had been a slow day.


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