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<p>Paul began typing on notecards. Somehow this felt right to his sensibilities. It was difficult to get the little cards into the typewriter. It was a pain to readjust the typewriter for regular paper when he wasn’t writing. He started typing everything on those little notecards: grocery lists, letters to his grandmother, <a href="telemarketer.html">even reports for work</a> (which is what got him in trouble).</p>
<p>But this was all later. For now he was writing his ideas, “notes” he now called them, something for him to combine later into something. He didn’t like to think about it. On this particular <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">cold winter morning</a>, he wrote</p>
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<p>Woke up from a <a href="in-bed.html">dream</a> I was famous. One of the more famous people in fact. I had written something everyone could relate to and at the same time proved my parents wrong. Because I made a lot of money. Or not a lot, but enough and more than they thought I would. It was a good day. Woke up this morning and I was still cold. <a href="something-simple.html">Still Paul.</a> Still not good at furniture.</p>
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