In a way the way I be helps the world while I'm just me...
Finally after a few minutes, with the pile of ashes at his feet growing to a sizeable hill, his fingers struck the hard, solid wood. He widened the hole so they could see more easily, and he removed one more large chunk. They both gawked at the sight.
He was going to run over to her and throw his arms around her, but he didn't want to forget where the path was, so he took off his shoes and placed them on either side of the path inside the clearing. That way, he'd know where to place his first foot as he made his way back out, if "out" existed.
What a hopeless phrase. What a terribly, terribly hopeless phrase.
I want to have the book fully written (not edited, just written) by the end of November, at the very latest. The title of the book is 2203.
So I'll just tell you plainly, the smile is fake. So I'll replace it with a stiff upper lip and braced eyes. I'll be indifferent, if complacent, but faking's not fine.
Flipping each sheet one by one, he noticed a sparkle from the page he had been working on, which now appeared to be gilded on the edge as well. His eyes widened as he revealed the page, which appeared to be covered in oil-slick except for an outline where his hand and pen had been, which was now a silhouette of plain, off-white paper with a dot of smudged black where the ink had dripped. It bled into the slick and swirled into a mesmerizing, spiraling pattern. He dabbed the page with the paper towel he had been using to clean off his pen to see if the page was wet, but even after smearing and rubbing for a few seconds, the page seemed to be dry as a piece of plain paper could be.