Four minutes till I have to leave.  Be writing the whole day, I order myself putting the notebooks and Composition Book in backpack.  For some reason, every time I try to sip my mocha, nothing comes out.  Must be the lid.  Goddamn Starbucks… hate even writing this place’s name.  sbux.  That’s what I’ll call them.  Done with blueberry scone, and I’m off to write for the next 8 hours.  Even if I’m not moving a pen, or taking a picture with my phone, the inner scribbler’s in his furious fury-frenzy, reciting to himself and seeing the crowd to which he’ll first read while on the Road.

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