Writer’s Block

Richard sat down at his desk for the fourth time that day and stared at the blinking cursor, counting them.  He tried a couple of different things: batting his eyelashes in time with the blinks, holding his breath for twelve, thirteen, even fourteen blinks.  He tapped his index finger against the desktop twice for every blink and liked that the rap of his fingertip against the wood sounded like a heartbeat, maybe even his own.  Several times, he tried to lose focus of the cursor by allowing the page to blur, an occupation that took a great deal of effort from his eyeballs to the point it started giving him a migraine.  It was then that he took his next break.  He needed ibuprofen, a new beverage, a couple of crackers and perhaps a slice of the summer sausage he spied in the pantry earlier that morning.  He pushed away from his desk, the familiar squeak of his rolling, faux-leather chair distinctly audible in his otherwise quiet office.

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