I Can Hear The Ice Machine Crackle

He just sat there. Writing and writing and writing and writing. He couldn't stop. That's not to say he didn't want to. He didn't necessarily want to continue, either. It just happened.

He has no motivation, no subject, no plot, no characters. It was a story that wasn't going anywhere. He was sitting on the living room couch, half a glass of iced-tea deep. It didn't have a purpose. Nothing really had much purpose. His day-to-day actions affected no one but himself. Only himself.

I paid them about 6 bucks today. How much did you pay?