I cannot tell if the storm is coming, or if it passed long ago...
That night, as I laid bed, stories running through my mind, with a groan and creak, I lifted my head, then I understood, and I cried
What a hopeless phrase. What a terribly, terribly hopeless phrase.
So now - a key-strike compresses into the clacky-plastic slab, and now - the dust leaps from my heart as it begins to ba-bum.
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.