After Party

The carts rolled downstage, cables barely fitting in their rounded return, repacking for their next rental.

“Come to the after party, Wyatt!” Cean said, behind me.

But I still had to write for the day, which usually involved sitting down and thinking first for a period of time.

“Don’t write your blog post,” Megan added.

“That is not the attitude I’m looking for,” I replied. And it really wasn’t. Why couldn’t people just immediately understand how important it was to me, and that I had to do this by midnight, as much as there were times that I truly didn’t want to, that it was non-negotiable?

This ticking clock countdown, silent to everyone else, but as artificial amplied as many other personal deadlines, had only two hours remaining. But perhaps I could just write something here, I guess. Although it would be rushed, and perhaps incoherent, it would continue. I would continue.

“Ok. Hold on.”

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