Write a few pages in which you obsess over something meaningless.
I can't stop thinking about the perfect alignment of my bookshelf. Every book must be precisely centered, and the sight of uneven spacing haunts my dreams. The arrangement of my sock drawer consumes my thoughts; mismatched pairs create a sense of chaos that disrupts my inner peace. I find myself endlessly pondering the optimal temperature for my morning coffee, convinced that a degree too hot or too cold will ruin the entire day. The quest for the ideal pen has become an obsession, as I search for a writing instrument that effortlessly glides on paper in a way that transcends the ordinary.
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