My mind writhes.

I don’t writhe, I just sit with my fingers on the keys:
Only ten parts moving.
My digits dance as they tickle and tap out their rhythms.
But my mind just writhes.
It squirms in its seat, desperate to get out.
Desperate to fly, and flow, and flee, all in one movement.
Desperate to form the thoughts that no one else can think.

What are they?

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