156 words
Again I pound the back space key while a fresh thought swirls in my head. Fearing that I might lose it, as if it were tangent, only encourages my fervor. Emotion rides along my fingers while the pressure to perform overtakes them. I am erasing less favorable words like alphabetic amnesia! I strike the key harder as if pressure makes a difference. Convinced I must rush to get it up on the screen before any future idea escapes. Investing in words like a padded bank account. When will it end? Not until the key board becomes extinct. Only to be replaced by God knows what. Perhaps some new obsessive action will take its place. For without a prop there may be no antidote for expressing my ever evolving prose. Short of writing I’d become like the loose buttons at the bottom of my sewing box. Saved for a purpose yet never restored to their rightful place.
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