Spending pleasant, sunny days indoors. Collating notes,
cross checking references, typing out draft ideas. Utterly ignoring the world
outside (and online). Not really in the mood to associate with anyone or imbue
the abundance of life which lies just outside my door. Isolation and infatuous
concentration. I haven't shaved in days. I barely recall bathing. I ate
something yesterday late-afternoon. My overused coffee mug streaked in brown
film and tepid liquid. Ash tray over-flowing with smoldering butts. Hours
slowly pass with my mind reeling in thought as I sit staring at a blank Word
Doc screen. This is the 'glamorous' life of a writer.
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