The hand that draws itself

Two weeks. Fuck. Two weeks.
A lifetime of lifetimes, yet to the world at large, it’d only been two weeks.
Ugh.
Two weeks he’d been haemorrhaging caffeine, sweating spinal fluid out of every pore in an attempt to pull his mind into point fine enough to give simple literature a good shiv in the kidneys. Two weeks of filling whole pages with single repeats of expletives, or whatever verbal equivalent of diarrhoea his useless mind could drip out.
There was only so much legally available stimulant; so little that would be genuinely useful in generating anything resembling an original idea. Every waking moment, filled with (mostly) hallucinated blankness.
Paranoia hadn’t so much seeped in by this point so much as it had gushed and spurted obnoxiously-
“I’ve had a stroke, that’s it. My prefrontal cortex is turning into Swiss cheese from some kind of encephalopathy. I have cerebral malaria.”
He saw himself sinking into a depression of idiocy, awaiting a white straightjacket and the terribly un-PC red rubber ‘Retard’ stamp on all his health forms. “I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. Pick’s Dementia. I’m schizophrenic.”
Find something unique to say, stretch it until it’s taffy on the paper.
Write an original sentence.
He paused in a facsimile of concentration, writing that- “Write an original sentence.”. No, not an original sentence. NO- even worse- meta-fiction was the ultimate hackery. Fuck! FUCKING DELETE!
Stick with it, his atrophied writing muscles seemed to moan. Screw it.
Yes- hack writer. All there for him to write about. Yes.
He stretched, cracking his knuckles for the billionth countable time in the past—the past---
“Two weeks-“ he began. “Fuck. Two weeks….”