THE WIND-UP

Logorrhea

Cameron Haynes, Staff Writer

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When darkness falls and I punch keys to churn out words, where does my energy come from? Does it come in a can, or a pill, or a box? Can it be made with boiling water and creamer? I would rather not take drugs, or whatever coffee is supposed to be. Instead, my high comes from the snoring of a dog – lazily twitching on a beanbag chair – and the crickets’ cacophony emanating from a rocky terrace. The kitchen clock telling me to go to bed and the telltale rustling of a page too late for reading.

Do I need energy bottled up or packaged in a five-hour dose? The midnight rain makes me shiver, pitter-patter sending chills down my scalp. Every drop types another character, rivulets forming words; if I’m lucky, it just might storm.

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