The Typist

I begin my composition, furiously scratching away with paper and pen. The melodies flow easily, the ink twisting and turning on the page. After what seems like hours, creativity ceases. Only minutes have passed. The clock ticks away, but my mind remains as blank as the pages before me. Hesitantly, I write a single word. A sentence. I stop again, erasing my newest thoughts. If I reexamine my composition, perhaps inspiration will return. A moment later, melodies fly from my fingertips. My fingers dance across the keys, faster and faster. Harmonies intertwine, always returning to the melody. I pause to scratch out a part of my masterpiece. Color blooms on the pages before my eyes — the melodies have taken on a life of their own, creating a story all their own. I tap the final keys as the inspiration dwindles. Today I have created a song, a story, a picture that illustrated itself.


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