What sleep had he got so far? Is it important? So much to do. Is it important at the end of the day how tired a person is?
Faced with it again, and again—and time was warping around him as he did what he could with the time he had and the chemicals that made it all possible to pound more and more words out in the frantic way of the life that he wanted.
He had a deadline. That was the point. Needed to get his writing done, and it needed to be sooner than it was already. He had, by his side, more coffee than anyone should consume, should put into their body. He was going to get all of this done without sleeping—that much was sure. Come hell, high water, or anything else.
In his ears, he had music blaring so loud that it was dangerous, and his body kept feeling so dizzy from the lack of sugar, all of it burned up in the sheer act of doing work and being there.
He lifted the cup to his lips and sucked down more. A long time ago, he had mocked the coffee drinkers, mercilessly, but now he was one of them and he had the speed to do more.
He tapped his toes as he went, sometimes rubbing them over each other. He was still going, still writing, and he could tell, he knew, that he was going to reach a point where he was more writing on muscle memory than anything else. He had the world at the speed of dizzying infinity, and it was going to make his head fucking pop—but he did it. He did what needed doing.
More words splattered on the screen, and he did not bother to go back and read them—that was an act for a later date. An act that required more mental energy than he had any hope of mustering. A period here. A comma there. So many typos. A few more desperately pushed sentences, grasping for some semblance of meaning in their composition. He doubted he’d find it—doubted he’d ever find it. Darting for the save button as if it were a nervous tick.
Two hundred left.
One hundred left.
One word left.
“Oh God, am I tired.”
Special thanks to: Bob Gerkin, Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd.
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