My drink is sweating all over the bills stacked on my desk. The windows are open, but the breeze filtering through the screen is warm. I don’t turn the air conditioner on; I rely on the ice cubes in my glass to cool me down.
I feel creative like this, with flushed cheeks and alcohol swimming through my veins. The fiction seeps from my brain; the heat pushing so no thoughts can survive. If I pause for more than a brief moment, I get stuck to the typewriter keys; it’s enough to keep the story flowing from my fingertips.
99 words
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