64.

Her opus was nearly complete. At intervals, her fingers muddled, scurried, and pounded out their final marathon of pages. Sitting as she was, her caffeinated form J-hooked over her desk, it was impossible to see the night sky, to notice how each exhausted, now frequent peck of the backspace key snuffed another star out of existence. “Worth it, all worth it,” her demons dirged, to the horror and chagrin of eyes everywhere.

grh

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