Someone beside my booth said something to me afterward.
"He must have wrote something very bad."
When the last cigarette had been struck, the bell rung, and the chatter of typewriters ensued.
I found though, as I watched my fingers type before me, two substrata's above the department that came up with stories in my head, a question welling. It was a killer question, and it through off my flow, so I wrote some confused, horrible shit for a time.
The session seemed to grow longer, and what was normal operating status was a growing claustrophobia. Something altogether new happened as I struck desperately at the keys of my machine: I was thinking about what to write (a growing awareness of what I wrote, that could not be pushed below). So another thought assailed me: was I losing my ability to doublethink?
As each word was struck, the creeping disease crawled up my hands and into my fingertips, stiffening them with the inability to strike. Longer moments passed between stokes, more effort spewed forth to embody each and every word and phrase. Sweat boiled on my forehead, collected on my shoulders and back.
"Say earthling, what's the deal?"
"Nothing." So I settled into the chair, a little broken, but relived nonetheless.
"Nothing? You nearly wet yourself. Nearly wet me too, with all that excitement."
So I looked over, as he began permeating the air with sweet Menthol. He stared back at me.
"A zucchini, the vegetable?"
"Yeah. It was a special zucchini, though. You see, it was sentient."
"A talking zucchini?"