Cal had told Jaina that he wanted to write, but he didn't know what. Yesterday changed all of that. Sing, O Muse, of the catch of inspiration, clinging to the edge of thought and distress like the dog-eared page of a well-read book. Cal, suddenly, knew what it was he wanted to write, and, since his roommate seemed out , he figured he could get a decent amount done. Fingers flying over the keys of his Underwood, which seemed even more vintage than it even had when he got it, he wrote. He wrote... read more
