My mind ran a million miles an hour and the words tumbled out, as if drunk. I wrote like crazy until I … didn’t.

[…] he began to write now like a madman — as only a madman could write — driven by an insanity of sense and soul and feeling which he no longer could master or control […] The words were wrung out of him in a kind of bloody sweat, they poured out of his finger-tips, spat out of his snarling throat like writhing snakes; he wrote them with his heart, his brain, his sweat, his body; he wrote them with his blood, his spirit; they were wrenched out of the last secret source and substance of his life.
— Thomas Wolfe, “Of Time and the River”

 
WordPress Daily Prompt: Rush

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