You've just downed a small mug of black coffee like a vodka shot. Your eyes are open, your pupils dilated, there is a mad energy behind your eyes, you're typing like a god possessed by another god and you're not making any typos. Your fingers a blur of the keyboard, flinging letters on the screen with the passion of new lovers flinging their clothes in a dark empty room, and the backspace key...is a distant memory. Fuck auto-correct. We are taking this thing down the old fashioned way.
There is a fire behind your eyeballs and there is electricity in your balls. You're not writing from the brain anymore, it's all impulse. All natural. All madness. Fueled by amazingly bad coffee that felt more like downing a mug of old engine oil. It has set fire to your neurons and the blank page is a vista that you're going to cover with the black blood of words that you will slaughter mercilessly on the page.
Inspiration? Muse? Creativity? FUCK ALL OF THEM.
You don't need them. Grind the writer's block under your mighty finger muscles and snort the dust and get high on it. So high that you never want to stop. So high that even if the computer breaks down, you'll grind this keyboard to pulp by mashing your fingers on it, till you're just left with bone stumps covered in tattered skin.
You come to the blank page. You come to it angry. If you don't write, you'll die. Here and now and they'll pry your dead fingers from the home keys of this keyboard with rusted crowbars. But your soul will be stuck here. Forever.
