Rough day today, long night ahead tonight in the frameshop.  Little time to read or write.  But I did get a story started–the one I have planned out–though this is just the very first rough draft of the opening.  It’s titled, The Player:

The sodden tissue held all the impressions of her fingers, like Silly Putty gripped in her hand. She fiddled it from one hand to the other, changing its maleable form, sometimes bringing it up to dab uselessly at her eyes since it was really incapable of absorbing any more. She listened, seldom breaking into the stream of pacifying words that droned like flies in the stifling sunlit office on the second floor of Catalooga High School. Now and then she still attempted a halfhearted "But, he…" that fell off into an unfinished whisper that left no impression on the man or the room at all.

And with only twenty pages to finish on The Body Artist, and very anxious at that to be done with this reading, I must hold off till tomorrow, unless I cannot sleep again tonight.

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