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I was sitting at my dark wooden desk, my fingers clicking and clicking my ink pen, the same way I always do when I think. I groaned and put my head in my hands and crumpled my piece of paper, agitated. Ideas wouldn’t come, and when they did, they were forced out of my mind and jammed together, like a puzzle put together incorrectly. I took my pen and started again, a fresh piece of paper put in front of me. Its inky tip hovered above the paper, cautious, hesitant of the daunting task ahead of it. Finally, it connected to the parchment, and I began to write. As soon as the ink hit the page, the words came, jarred loose from my brain and spilling out of my mind and onto the paper. Ink began to run across my piece of parchment, linking together smoothly, weaving together like a piece of cloth and forming not only something that worked, but a world. While some saw a jumble of words written in a slanted writing, I saw something different—a universe.

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