Word: stared
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...underground, right now. I spend my days in my room, sitting before the very computer on which I am writing this column, and I stare. I stare...
...really go to class, anymore. Occasionally, I may steal down to the dining hall. There, I eat as fast as I can so that I can hurry back upstairs and start staring, again. I stare all day long. Every once in a while, though, my staring is interrupted and then, in a fit of inspiration, my hands leap to the keyboard, and I type. This lasts for a few minutes. When I'm done, for a moment, there is a feeling. I won't call it satisfaction, but its is something vaguely like that. Then the feeling passes...
Sometimes, I stare at things other than my own words. I stare at words people send me, and, sometimes, at words that people sent them. These words are occasionally funny; more often they are not. Sometimes they are not funny but try to be. I am annoyed when I stare at these words...
Sometimes I stare at words that tell me they have been sent around the world several times before they reached me. Now they have reached me, this underground man, and I get the chance to stare at them too. These words say I should feel fortunate to stare at them and promise, if I send them along to several of my closest friends, that they will bring me good luck. If I don't send them, however, terrible things will happen. They promise me this...
Neither of us had any problem getting our pictures to appear. Antje's son Harrison was so impressed that he would rush into her bedroom at 6 a.m. each day just to stare at his digital likeness onscreen, while I treated myself to mid-workday forays in Central Park to snap the golden fall leaves...