I left momentarily. I'm back now. I do wonder what brought about this onslaught of inspiration. was it contemplation on certain matters I wouldn't cease to cast aside? I couldn't stop thinking about the benefits of the book that I am reading – why do I plough through it, without will? how do I benefit? am I enjoying the read? do I purely want the bragging rights? I can't answer any of these questions, only moments later to greet my replies to myself with agreement. I can't settle, so I read on. it is my escape

how odd. I escape through reading. just recently reading was so difficult a task, I couldn't get through more than a few pages a day. things have evolved, rapidly so. its gotten out of control. my reading – perhaps it'll become unhealthy at this rate. social withdrawal will arrive ensue. there will be nothing left for me but to pursue a career in paid book-reading. I couldn't even review a book for the life of me. words fail me constantly, my vocabulary is awkwardly lacking, my ideas mere imitations of those that exist and I have come across. but this – this right now is raw, self-inspired. I feel it flowing immediately to the keyboard, my fingers buzzing and prancing and leaping across the keyboard with agility, almost desperate to get this all down before it vanishes, a disintegrated figment. I wonder when it'll end.