Fingers dance across the melting keyboard. The keys must be hit quickly but gently to prevent the loss of fingerprints. I should go into the shade but I’m finding the sun bearing down on my bald spot to be energizing. The words are shooting from my brain, down my arms and into my hands. The words are nonsense and worthless but that’s what rewrites are for.
The spellchecker is screaming under the weight of my gibberish. I am the God of speed writing. Emily Wood and Mavis Beacon bow before my glory. I smell toast. Perhaps I have become insane.