feverishly typing at his keyboard,
he chuckled to himself.
the feeling he got when writing
was pure, unadulterated fun.
anything that felt this good
must surely be a sin,
he had been told growing up.
he had always disagreed.
doing what you love,
he’d told his opponents,
is like being given a license to steal.
and after fifteen years in the business,
he had become a master thief.
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