Eleven Minutes to Midnight

The final countdown.

Eleven minutes. That’s how long I have to write this, because that’s how long it’s going to take for my clothes to dry.

Nine minutes. Did time fly? I’ve always been a slow writer, although I daresay that my mind is much, much faster than my hand. Maybe I ought to develop a shorthand or just bring my nifty recorder. Although speaking into a recorder might look pretty bloody weird. Like one of those half-mad doctors on those shows, keeping their voice journals of their patients. I’m not mad, am I?

Six minutes. My handwriting’s deteriorated since May. I’ve not written much, by hand, I mean. Nobody seems to write much anymore. in this age of computers. But sometimes I get an urge to grab a quill-tipped pen, dip it in ink, and scratch away like the scribes of the olde days. Hah, I spelled old with an ‘e’. Maybe I am slightly mad, after all. Or aren’t we all?

Three minutes. I wonder how many words I’ve written so far. I’ve never gotten a high score on the SAT writing part. I blame that mostly on my writing speed.

Barely a page written, and my hand already aches. Sigh. All the exercise I get working at Becco, and my fingers still cry out in pain after merely ten minutes of mad scribbles.

One minute left. What would I do if there was only a single minute left of my life?

Time’s up.


Everything above this paragraph was copied as it was written in my notebook at Waverly Wu, with divided paragraphs. It was pure brainstorming/speed writing (as fast as I could write, with the least number of interruptions that I could manage), so it’s both shorter and more directionless than my usual blog posts.

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