Her footsteps crunching through crisp autumn leaves beat in time to the thud of her heart and the rasp of her breath. The rhythm grew pace as she corned the outer rim of the dusk soaked forest. She had left leaving too late, and now panic was in for the night.
Three thirty, on the dot. He sits. No paper. No dog. No pipe. He just sits.
I have a cloudy memory but I’ve always been drowning in cotton candy words. I tried to put my finger on what I needed to say, only to end up adrift, or worse; shooting the messenger. Nothing was ever shipshape and Bristol fashion, and so often I would beat a dead horse.
Are you listening?
‘Fifty percent of all books have more words than Brave New World and fifty percent have less. It is a very good book’
We can share a tic tac. We can share red velvet.
So I guess I’m on a precipice. I like that. A big goddamn word. Like plateau. How do you like that fanciness?