The writing classroom can be waves, massage, a firm hand supporting the small of your back.

It can be heat lightning, firing everywhere, harming no one but intermittently offering sharp glimpses of where you are.

It can be so slow that next and next and next after that gradually come to a halt, and some reality remains to be examined at full, wondering leisure.

It can be so fast that it was over an hour ago and you're still trying to catch what happened.