The book I’m writing fills my mind. I feel the end coming like a train rushing at me. I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to. And I hate having to stop (like for food or sleep or children) because I see the finish line in the distance. The words pour over and through and around me.  I snatch a few here and there–keep, discard, add some in here–but the stream of words has now become a waterfall rushing over and past me almost drowning me with its crazy, powerful momentum. These words seem to have a life of their own now, and I am just along for the ride.



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