A month begins. Cold, dark November with its messages mixed, with its candles lit across graveyards like at attempt to love death to life. We wake early in the twisted clocks, wander up and down rickety staircases in flannel pajamas like a Hallmark card, but when their eyes are turned my insides shrivel. I woke up in the middle of the night, street quiet, sky dark and full of stars, and cut open wounds I didn't even know had any nerve endings left in them. In the morning, he writes to say he has started another story; he gives you the chance to do the same and though you have forgotten what it is for something bright, you reach your trembling hands toward the light and pray, and pray you might catch a lifeline. Your notes for the burgeoning story stand out in the leatherbound journal at your side: No one reads a book where the character just wants to make it to the end.
A month begins.
You sit down, and start to write.
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