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She wrote. And wrote.

It wasn't just one story, or even a few of them.

It was hundreds.

Thousands.

Maybe even millions.

She wrote. And wrote.

It was almost an obssession. Just writing, day in, day out, all through the night.

She couldn't stop. She didn't much fancy stopping either. She wanted to write.

Writing was all she knew of, now.

How long had it been?

Maybe a year, maybe two months, maybe a decade, maybe twenty-four and a half minutes.

She'd lost track.

But it didn't bother her.

She knew only of writing.

Her room was lined with stacks of paper, along the walls, from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. She didn't read through a story once she'd finished it.

Just wrote it and put it with the others.

Maybe one day she'd take the time to read them all. Not all at once, but one at the time when time was.

Maybe she'd just set fire to the whole thing.

She could watch it burn.

All those papers. They'd make a nice bonfire, they would.

But now she was writing. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keys, filling documents, scribbled letter after letter, filling note pads, clicked away on the typewriter, leaving more stacks of loose papers filled with words and sentences.

She wrote. And wrote.

And she would write till it finished her off, or till she couldn't write any more. Whichever came first.

Writing was no longer a funny thing, no longer a game.

Writing was crucial.

She was writing to save her life.