I'm sitting in my room with two candles lightly burning behind me on the windowsill and my pale blue blanket covering up my shivering feet while my fingers move quickly across the keyboard. I don't really know what to say.
I hate when this happens, my mind is exploding with words and creativity but I have no where to put it, nothing to do with it, nothing in which to channel it.
I'll have words in my head and no story in which to put them, I won't have a plot. So I'll write this scene for a story or a script and have nothing to do with it after that.
She stood outside, letting the cool wind hit her face and the tobacco run through her lungs. She knew it was bad, she knew she should quit, but she didn't. She wouldn't. She'd been smoking since she was 12, there was no point in stopping ten years later. Besides, she reasoned, leaning against the brick wall of the cafe she worked in, it's how I meet people. It was true, when she was 16, standing outside of her favorite dive bar she'd met her best friend. When she was 20, smoking outside the subway, she'd met her boss. It's where she'd met all her best friends, anyone she'd ever dated... It was while smoking on the street outside of wherever she was, was going into, or had just been.
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