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Committed to the vow I made to write a certain amount of words per day, I speak to my typewriter with kind words to seduce wondrous prose from within its mechanical being. Granted, I know that this is not a probable means for seduction of a muse, rather it is generally a procedure I implemented long ago to stir the creative being within me. Sure, it's an alternative to talking to myself, but inevitably thousands of words spill forth. Words such as this, veiled by and within the cobwebs beneath the inebriated stupor. I don't so much appreciate the buzz as I cherish the uninhibited essence it contributes to my writing. I have read many acclaimed writers who were rummy types, spilling gallons of booze down their gullets for not only addiction and the need for escape, but the providence of creation.

I am but a man with thoughts. Alone most of the time and in the company of persons without compassion for my vice the remainder of moments.


Forgive the misunderstanding, my vice is not alcohol, it is the inherent need for compassion, for love and a gentle hug when I am on the brink of jumping. These moments coerce my cognitive intellect to believe that being forced to walk a plank might be easier.

I may absorb depression in days of despair, but contrary ideas and philosophy persuade me to believe that it will all turn out right in the end. I believe that my typewriter as a muse will prevail. That inspiration as habit will pan out eventually, no matter the influence which occupies the elementary impressions of how my essence should remain and progress.

I write every single day no matter the outcome. I even cry in disbelief when my expectations can't preponderate beyond the influence of my cyclical being throughout the seasons (they blend so quickly as time goes on). I balance the fine fence of generous prose on this line of expectation, and cherish the moments of complete equilibrium which represents the strobe light stop, the sediment of genius. Write for the ages, but only use the good stuff.

This typewriter is more than a utensil to write. It is a device I use like my thesaurus and dictionary to channel the feelings within. I abuse it with pounding key strokes and as an outlet for the sounding board which remains my soul, as an extention of myself. Nor is it easy to have an inadimate object as the partner for this marriage. I abhor the very thought and crave the intimate relation with a woman to share these things with. I am aware that my theory may be wasted on an undeserving girl, but I may be willing to trade despite my utilitarian philosophies.

The intimacy is worth the sacrifice. Despite my desires, I am concious of the possibility that this trade of love for writing may be detrimental to the final end of success. I am apathetic toward such thoughts. Be aware that for the remainder of the time, I will use this typewriter as a means for release, and that I will share it with you,

my fair friends.

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