I am eight years old again. My butt is flattened by a stiff chair with no back support. The screen hurts my eyes, already red and tearful... It's 2 am. I've been writing a story for the past five hours. I know nothing, I've read nothing. Harry Potter has not reached my shelves; I have not found my heroes or my foes or my platonic, paper-made lovers. I have not read 'On Writing' by Stephen King. I have not re-read whole chapters and wondered how someone can 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, this is where I belong.