A tickling in the back of my head ends hours of unbroken concentration.
Running my fingers through my hair stops the feeling momentarily, but as I pick up my writing the sensation returns.
I turn in my seat, but all I see are the names on the volumes in the racks behind me: Kant, Rousseau, Schopenhauer, Wittgenstein and countless other mental giants, people who shaped my thinking long before I was even born.
I stand and browse the faded titles: Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, Du Contract Social.
I look back at the text on my laptop.