What Glorious Misery!

Writing long pieces is such a base affair. I grow into an unconscious recluse; holed up in one spot for days till my hair becomes uncombable…It is a beautifully sore sight and an academically epic picture…Decorating my room with clothes discarded on the floor and more obscure places; papers strewn about me as I hunch over my notebook.
I become a mad man then. In all truth I am mad, I am an artist after all. I become obssessed with finding the right words, the right harmony; lyrical holiness!
My back stifens as I feel the pained caress of a bic between my naked fingers, allowing it to freely spew lexical orgasms upon my battered notebook. It is not until I’m satisfied that my tired fingers get to fornicate with each deft stroke inflicted on the surface of my keyboard…What glorious misery!

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