Sometimes there comes upon me such a feeling that I cannot continue. Eyelids droop. Thinking slows. Fingers trip on the keyboard.
Sometimes, when the rest of the house is quiet except for the ticking clock on my desk, I find I cannot write. In the dark. By myself. Nothing to say.
And sometimes, after reading the headlines and the articles that stream into this room, I find myself unable move. Too shocked. Too ashamed. Too saddened.
When this happens, I sit in the silence and stare at my fingers and eventually go to bed.
And I hope that tomorrow will be different.
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