I breathe in through my nose.
I focus on the sound of the air rushing through my nasal passages.
I breathe out through my mouth.
I speed up the exhalation towards the end so that the last of the air escapes my lungs with a soft huff.
I shake my head quickly from side to side, to clear my thoughts and to listen briefly to the sound my hair makes as it brushes against itself, like my own version of the wind through a field of knee-high grass, towards the end of summer. Shfftshfftshfft.
I put my fingers to the keys, the heels of my palms and my wrists cold on my laptop's aluminum body.
I type, spelling out words, sentences, a paragraph:

"Fucking writers' block.
It's insidious, not only destroying my ability to write, but also my impetus. I still have the need to do something creative, and the feeling is like my brain crammed into a cage that is too small for it...but I don't want to write to relieve the pressure. Being unable to write and not wanting to are equally unbearable states of being...but their combined clout has me trapped in a state of crippling mental identity crisis that gradually chips away at my emotional stability."

I close my eyes and tilt my head back, rolling the weight of it around to stretch out some of the muscles in my neck. It hurts in a pleasant way.
I lift my head back up and eye the laptop's screen, skimming over the words I've jut written.
I breathe in and out again.
I shake my head again, listening to my hair.
My wrists and the heels of my palm are starting to warm the laptop's cold aluminum.
I put my fingers to the keys and type.