I am eight years old again. The chair flattens my butt and has no back support. The shine of the screen hurts my eyes, already red and watery... I think it's about 2 am. I've been writing a story for the past five hours. I know nothing, I've read nothing. Harry Potter has not yet reached my shelves, I have not found my heroes or my foes. I have not read 'On Writing' by Stephen King. I have not re-read whole chapters wondering how the hell can someone be so good at this. It's just me. Plain me, eight years old, during the most magical and fulfilling moment of my childhood. This very moment, elongated in time; because it is where I belong.