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So, I'm on the floor typing, and the profound thoughts are coming at me like golden-winged gnats. I'm typing so fast and I can hardly keep up with them. Deep thought after deep thought is running through my thumbs – something about my friends being Australia and me being the breakaway island of Tasmania, and all of that sea. A whole paragraph on the transcendent power of the first four bars of "Come Into My Life" by Joyce Sims. A long discussion about how, if you weave yourself into the fabric of a song you didn't write, you will get trapped inside it FOREVER.Rachel walks past and then stops. "HERE you are. Fucking hell Lentils, what are you doing on the floor, are you stuck down there?" (I don't know why they call me Lentils.) Grace has known me a lot longer than Rach, so when she joins Rach to look at Lentils on the floor, there is no surprise in her eyes. "This is normal," she says, with a face that could freeze sunshine. But men love it. Four men in a row come and ask if I am alright. Their concern is quite sexually appealing to me, but I can't stop writing. Finally a fifth man asks if I am OK, and I say "yes" without looking up, and then he goes away, and he comes back, and he goes, "I just want you to know – I came back because – you're too pretty to be on the floor." I look up and see the arc of benevolent eyebrows. We will be married in a country church! I keep writing. The force of genius has me tight in its clutches tonight.
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