I need to write. I need to write. I need to write.

The words were supposed to be flowing out of her, dancing in front of her;
they were supposed to be f l o            w i n               g;
like they were a part of a cold, windy day;
part of the ocean, of all the waves;
part of all those people who rushed past you at lunch hour, all those people, because if they were a minute late, it would all be wrong.

It would be l a t e r;
but l a t e r meant leftovers, those nasty little cabbage pies you get when you arrive late, instead of the delicious mincemeat pie or that heavenly strawberry pie;
no one wants a damp bread, stuffed with cold cabbage;
no one wants to be the one who arrives l a t e r.

The words know this;
they f l o         w and f l o        w and f l o       w;
because who wants to arrive late and be the unwitty one;
the one that all the other words stare at because it arrived a minute late and they're already on another topic.

And so she pours;
pours all of it out, all those words;
nasty little words and impressive big ones; rushing to be o n  t i m e;
rushing to be witty and smart and beautiful and perfect;
rushing to make the words happy;
rushing to keep peace with them; so they wouldn't eat her mind up with all their dancing;
keeping peace to clear her mind of them;

they would stop if she was fast enough.