He had to sacrifice something and he was running out of parts. He held on to random appendages: his nose, his fingers, his irregular beating heart. With every sip of whisky or wine something else vanished from his body. He needed a champion and he knew it – someone else to endure for him so he could keep smelling and touching for a little while longer. Hundreds of people surrounded him, and all he needed was one.
I missed yesterday again. I’m finding it hard to find it in me to sit down and write. When I do, I feel better. But the time leading up to it is dreadful. I’m committed to writing two stories tomorrow to get me out of this funk.