2. At my writers' group, inspiration strikes for stories and novels: I want my friends to hurry up and write them so I can read them. Marie mentions a photocopier, and this, for some reason, is the trigger. I begin to write. It seems my worries about life post-Inevitable were unfounded. There are stories in me yet.
3. The oppressive heat breaks at last, and I watch the rain flow down the train windows. If I'd caught the one before, as I wanted to, I would have had to walk home from the station in the downpour. Instead of which, I let a welcome breeze refresh me and read The Grapes of Wrath as the occasional lightning bolt lights up the sky.
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