you walk into the room where I am typing away on my computer as fast as I possibly can all while whispering under my breath. "I have to go faster, got to get this all down,"
"Hey, author?" You call out stepping further into the room. I ignore you, though I can hear you because I'm flowing with creative juices and you can feel the heat from outside.
"Author," You ask again, still no answer.
"AUTHOR!!" You yell. I stop typing and the quiet is deafening as I slowly take off my blue light glasses before I turn around and glare at you.
Slowly as you look into my pale blue irises you hear a tune from Hamiltion fill the air around us.
Why do you write like you're running out of time?
Why day and night like you're running out of time?
How do you write every second you're alive
every second you're alive
Then suddenly it stops, and I say very slowly something everyone who knows me well has heard before.
"In a minute,"
Then I turn back to my computer put my glasses back on flip my hair off my shoulders and continue typing because my stories are depending on me and I just can't write fast enough.
I am not done in a minute, nor did I intend for it to be a minute.
For now, just wait, rest, and allow me to throw away my needs to give you more stories.
(not that I throw away my needs on purpose.)