The afternoon disappeared somewhere. She had started around two — had opened the document with a vague sense of what she wanted to say. At some point the sentences had started coming faster than she could type them, and at another point she had paused to reread and found three pages she did not entirely remember writing, and they were good pages. The light in the room had changed. Her coffee was cold and she had forgotten it. She typed the next sentence. The one after that. She was not thinking about being in flow; she was simply in it, and would only notice later, when it broke, how smooth and how strange it had been.
