- [x] Set timer for 20 minutes - [x] Start writing Oxytocin pours off him. The mysterious love chemical mixes with fur, drool, and his grunts, barks, and purrs, to create a milieu of silly pleasure spikes in the brain of his owner. Honestly, he doesn't mean to do it! He just is being his own self. When there's a bone, he hucks it in the air to play with it. When there's a bowl of food, he eats the whole thing with barely a breath. When the front door is open, he runs full force outside to see who might be there. His brain does not hold hesitation, it does not have a brake lever. In fact, on the wood floors, his brain doesn't seem to have a steering wheel, brakes, or even a driver, as he careens across rooms, slams into doorways, and slides into cabinets. What can we learn from Jack? If Jack were writing this, he would be done already. It would be full of typos, grammatical miscues, and there would be no punctuation. he would go full force through the writing tlike it was no there was no barrier between his ideas and the parper all of his ideas would come out all at onec oh damn theres a tick where was i let s get back to writing i think this is acutally how morning paged are supposed to be writing like the dogs have control of the paper should we try thins for a while? should we try just going an dgoing and going and no lookin ghback and jusgt getting ideas down ti with no holds barred approach to mental exlosions ok here's the sotyr wirtten like that inside the coffee was a nbunch of cystals. jimmy didn't know that they were there or that's what he told the autorhies at the border. it was a gift from a friend inu costa rik a he had been fisiting during those weeks on his boat. for whatever reason they didn't listen to him, maybe be cause he was bronw, maybe because he had a guatemala n passport. whatever the reason the next thing he new he was in a card table only room in the basement of the airport with his leg shackled to a bolt on the loor. he couldn't tell if it was day or night, he couldn't tell when he had last showered, when he had last eaten, but they wer kind with the coffee and water. unfortunately htat meant that he had to pee, soooo badly now that he was unable to stand. he was unable to htink. his vision was tkaing on a yellow hue. but where were the authorities? at this point he stood up and peed right on the wall. he had no choice but to empty his bladder where he was. he had no choice. and when he stood he saw out the window smoke and fires. he couldn't see well because it was a basement window, the littel ones high on the wall. howerver, what he coudl see, was that the entire area was on fire. and what he couldn't see, was any sign of human movement. what had happend? his mouth dried, his heart raced, his breathing quickened. withtout knowing what happened, how would he get out? What if they had forgotten about him? What did he know? it was day, whcih day he cou;dn't be sure but he had landed at dusk so it was probably just tomorrow. which would be Wednesday. which would be the day after the presidential election. oh damn, damn, damn. let's ask ChatGPT to clean this up: Here's a cleaner version of the writing: --- He would charge through the writing as if there were no barrier between his ideas and the paper. All of his thoughts would spill out at once. *Oh damn, there's a tick. Where was I?* Let’s get back to writing. This is actually how morning pages are supposed to feel—like the dogs have control of the paper. Should we try this for a while? Just keep going and going, without looking back? Just getting ideas down with a no-holds-barred approach to mental explosions? Okay, here’s the story written like that: --- Inside the coffee were a bunch of crystals. Jimmy didn’t know they were there, or at least that’s what he told the authorities at the border. It was a gift from a friend in Costa Rica he had visited during his trip on the boat. For whatever reason, they didn’t believe him—maybe because he was brown, maybe because he had a Guatemalan passport. Whatever the reason, the next thing he knew, he was in a small room with just a card table, his leg shackled to a bolt in the floor. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night, nor when he’d last showered or eaten. But they were kind with the coffee and water. Unfortunately, that meant he had to pee—so badly now that he couldn’t even stand. His thoughts blurred, his vision took on a yellow hue. Where were the authorities? Finally, he stood and peed on the wall. He had no choice. When he rose, he glanced through a small basement window—the kind high on the wall—and saw smoke and fire. He couldn’t see much, but it was clear the entire area was burning. Worse, there was no sign of anyone. His mouth dried. His heart raced. His breath quickened. What had happened? And more importantly, how would he get out? Had they forgotten about him? It was day—he was sure of that much. But which day? He’d landed at dusk, so it must be the next morning. Wednesday. The day after the presidential election. *Oh damn, damn, damn.*