It was two in the morning and I woke up:
I need to write. Right. Now.
(i haven't had this urge [an urge this strong] since i moved here.)
i wonder if my roommate or the wonderful girl asleep in bed next to me are aware of what i'm doing, conscious of the furious pace of my scribbling and what this means for me as a writer. i wonder if the drunken frat boys screaming outside know [are aware] of the 2AM [late hour] [wee hour] epiphany that is occurring high above them on the eleventh [11th] floor. I wonder if I know [understand] what all these brackets mean, that i am giving myself a chance to play with the words, to decide later which ones are best, to give myself choices . . . . i wonder if my eyes will ever forgive me.
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