June 2
He sat in his room. It was a moderate winter's eve. In the past, he might have written such things as "And he spilled the contents of his tortured psyche onto the page", but now he had become more refined concerning his depressive episodes; a much more cynical writer on this date, this moderate winter's eve. He would rather write "He sat in his room. It was a moderate winter's eve. In the past, he might have written such things as "And he spilled the contents of his tortured psyche onto the page", but now he had become more refined concerning his depressive episodes; a much more cynical writer on this date, this moderate winter's eve. He would rather write "He sat in his room. It was a moderate winter's eve. In the past, he might have written such things as "And he spilled the contents of his tortured psyche onto the page", but now he had become more refined concerning his depressive episodes; a much more cynical writer on this date, this moderate winter's eve. He would rather write something else.
So, he got out of his chair and decorated the ground outside and below with a generous splash of red. It was decidedly his last creation; a message that ended up being somewhat abstract. Hardly worth the ink, that 'something else'. ", but as he was viciously writing, he was stricken by a terrifying interruption - screaming: approaching from above. His apartment was for a moment shadowed by the source, and then a thump.
Realising what had happened, he raced out of his apartment and downstairs to see if the source had survived.", which he felt to be a much better expression of his perpetual state. Quite satisfied with the apparent improvement in the maturity of his writing, he duly laid down his pen and proceeded to his bed.
Copyright © Vincent Dent | Year Posted 2015
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