Snippet, THE STARS ARE WRONG.

I’m trying to make wordcount on the book. I have a schedule. It’s important. So of course I started a short story today.

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I do not know if any other eyes besides my own will ever view these pages, or indeed if I will do anything else besides immediately offer them up to the water. Perhaps I shall consign these ink-flecked sheets to a locked desk drawer, safely hidden from speculative eyes, until they and the words upon them finally swell and molder away in peace. But I do not think that peace will be found in these lands for much longer, nor that the new world to come will have an easy birth. It seems more likely that these pages will instead burn, in some future conflagration. If that is their fate – to be consumed by the searing horror of the flames – then appreciate this grim jest, oh unseen and imaginary Reader: the fire was likely started by my own trembling hand, however unwillingly.

It is not a very good jest, I am afraid. But then, I am not the man that I once was.