Rise and shine and I’m greeted with a torrent of data. 65,536 lines from A to IV. Maybe it’s the rough draft of my magnum opus, the great American novel, my autobiography. A hundred witty retorts to arguments long since forgotten, answers to childhood questions, solutions to puzzles, the question to last night’s Final Jeopardy answer. A to-do list I’ll never see the end of, a shopping list of things I don’t really need, the final ingredient in that recipe I’ve been working on. A letter to the editor, an op-ed piece, another article 2600 won’t publish. A poem, a song, a bumper sticker, a snarky tee shirt. A week of blog entries, a forum post, a Wikipedia correction. An amicus brief, a scathing missive to my congresscritter, a reply to an email I’ve been leaving in my inbox.

Shake the mouse to stop the Starfield Simulator, open up a new text file, and sift through the wake. The flood recedes and I’m left with…

Writer’s block.

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