"I got up, face leaking onto my dingy shirt, and lumbered to the desk holding my typewriter. I tried banging out a few sentences, but to no avail. I re-wrote the same paragraph twice before deciding that it was useless and so was I in this condition. I rid(more) the bottle of the last sips of bourbon and threw the square jug into the bin with the other ones. Hours passed before I was able to make my head stop spinning and my fevered hands stop shaking. I was almost there--on the cusp of touching something I had been reaching for going on thirty years. Snot fell where it dropped (my hands, my shirt, the typewriter keys) but it didn't deter me from writing. The something beyond, the other, the far-flung intuition of consciousness was mine to grasp and I wrung out every drop.
When morning came to me in a hacking start my blinking eyes couldn't comprehend what I had done. The roll of paper never advanced beyond the first sentence, "This, if esoterically come upon, intuitive rendering of all things has made me sane in the madness of it." After that, all of the pages were crammed together onto one character space. I found the reel jammed. After I opened up the machine, I pulled a mangled tissue from inside." Samuel trailed off in a mumble.
"That's when I threw the typewriter out of the window, officer. I'm sorry about the lady's dog."