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December 1, 2002
The glare from a blank document fades very gradually, in direct proportion to the arrival of morning’s light. It’s a very slow process. Almost as slow as this search for a word. The glare cuts through the dark room, casting it’s eerie spell on my white coffee cup, my white cigarette pack, my white lighter, and my white keyboard, where my fingers rest so tentatively. White smoke drifts into dark corners. Everything’s in stark contrast; waiting for dawn to define the day. Will there be color, or just shades of gray? I sit here, quietly waiting, after another sleepless night.