Inside me is a monster who craves for words and ideas I write. Such a gruesome monster he (or she) is. He (or she) lives somewhere deep in my stomach, ready to punch away all the food I gulped along with my digestive acid. When he stretches his (or her) mouth wide open, it crunches my bones to the deep. The pain travels through my veins up to my brain sending signals that it's time for me to write. It won't stop until I switch open my desktop to write and puke, write and puke, write and puke.
Sometimes, I am extremely disgusted by what I spill on a blank word document.
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