"I can't write anything good."
77 words
He writes, feverishly and disconnected from the rest of reality, he writes, pages packed and spilling with words that no one can read, not even him.
He writes and he writes but the language leaking from his pen is not the one that he was raised to speak.
He writes then he turns to ask the meaning of the page he has filled. His hand is cramped but he does not remember ever picking up the pen.
77 words
He writes, feverishly and disconnected from the rest of reality, he writes, pages packed and spilling with words that no one can read, not even him.
He writes and he writes but the language leaking from his pen is not the one that he was raised to speak.
He writes then he turns to ask the meaning of the page he has filled. His hand is cramped but he does not remember ever picking up the pen.
