10:46 am, 2014
The glare against the windshield suddenly became ever-sharper, and yet not menacing. The sword was familiar, and the leather handle was worn around the edges. The metal has been tinted with burgundy many a time and it is still clean of rust. This sword has been through hell and back, and it was forged from stars millions of light years away...

A honk rips me out of the clouds. My hands are tensed on the leather wheel, my teeth gritted. It's always been so jarring when I am disturbed.

The light is green, and my car slugs forward, away from the cacophony of shouts and horns.

The sky is a dreary sort of morning twilight, and neon ads slightly burn my eyes. Did they think that they were doing the area a favor by making it colorful? The dichotomy between the suburbs and the city has never been more prominent.

Maybe I can use similar color schemes and other recognizable examples to illustrate class/racial divides...

My eyes spot the short building in my peripheral, and my brain jerks toward it like an attentive dog.
Sniffing out the coffee from my car.

I park, and nonchalantly stroll in with my computer in my hands and take a seat. I know the WiFi password by heart, and I know to order a plain black coffee to not get kicked out.

My best creativity always struck me here, in this cliché yet serene atmosphere of the typical up-and-coming coffee shop.

I never quite leaned into tropes, but once I tried this one, I couldn't break the habit.

I brought my drink, all inconspicuous in the opaque cap and cup with the bright blue label smacked in the middle.

As I wait for my computer to start up and to log in, I mindlessly take a sip.
It tasted a bit sweeter than normal, but if they gave me another more expensive drink by accident, I wasn't complaining.

***
12:28 pm, 2014.
As the blinking cursor and Maq screen glared into my glasses, my eyes twitched.
Right when I'm ready to write down my ideas, I can never remember them.

Stress pounds on my head like it's a door; bills, deadlines, debts, time.

There is never enough time for everything.

Like a dam burst,
Like a lightbulb was set aflame,
Like a crack in reality,
A gushing downpour of ideas rushes through my head, never fast enough to catch them all.

A flood of colors, worlds, characters, and events from various impossible histories.

Oh, but what is a possibility in the face of imagination?

***
10:26 pm, 2014.
Muffled noise breaks me out of my comfort. I blink multiple times, to see the sky outside a dark black, and many, many, cups of coffee scattered in front of me.

A concerned and tired-looking employee stands over the table, her hands clasped together and her stance droopy from a day's work.

"Please ma'am, we need to close soon."
Sounds are clear again, and a kernel of irritation nags at my mind from being dragged back into my stress and this reality that has failed me concerning interest.

I glance at my computer, and I still see that damned cursor blinking; with absolutely nothing typed down. In my fog of confusion, all I can remember is the creativity that oozed from my mind.

I look back up to the exasperated eyes of the teen, and chaotically scramble to grab my things.
"Sorry, sorry...I was daydreaming.." I stuttered out. My embarrassment only amplified the longer I was aware.

"It's okay ma'am, we can take care of the drinks."

"Thank you so much."

"Please come again."

I'm sure I won't.
I grab my car door with a sigh.

***
11:38 pm, 2014
Somehow I got home.
My eyes are blurry, and I'm blanking out every other second.
Was the coffee drugged? No...I wouldn't be the only one affected, yet left alone. Not with that many dozens of empty-looking drink corpses.

My thoughts are trying to run through water, everything is delayed or sped up.

I look at a picture frame, and one second I see myself in the mountainside, and the next I see my character's neon and dark world.

I keep blinking, and I back up to the couch to sit down. I miraculously don't trip, though it feels like I'm walking on clouds.

I look towards the TV, and it's not the one I own. It's one ripped straight from 1989.

The sky through my windows isn't night anymore; it's a deep burgundy.

***
Unknown, 2015.
I blinked, and I was looking up at the wood ceiling of a casket, through dried-out sockets and fractured bone.

Dedicated to my friend Pillow_Prince7 because they have yet again terrified me with their writing ambitions.