Exactly 45% through 1000 days of daily writing. I’d be further if I’d written daily. I think I’d be done. Sigh.
I’m digging through my Evernote finds hoping to pull a charming maquette out of the bunch the way you flip a Beatles LP out of a stand of old records in a atticked box. I’m only finding the Bee Gees though. Maybe some days you just can’t have the Fab Four…
Timothy hunches in the auditorium chair appreciating the stark silhouette his shadow produces on the cement and the stackability of a row of cloned chairs: square chrome legs, orange cloth seats. He doesn’t know why the room is black. He doesn’t know why a single spot light beams into the crowd of chairs rather than the performance-free stage. He adjusts his shoulders to make the outline of his head on the floor distinct from the peaks of his jean jacket collar. Better.
Looking for an escape from the wedding party, he truly thought the door that swung open would lead to the outside and a polite secret smoke in the hotel ally. Instead he got this egotistically lit room. Of course he sat right down in the singular illuminated throne. But, as neatly as it served his mood initially, he still needed that smoke.
A pack of Marlboros appears out of habit. He packs it down and plucks out a lucky one before he realizes he’s decided to smoke in a building. Timothy casts back in the chair to prop it up on its two back legs so that he can fish his lighter out of his jeans.
Some more stuff happened but I ran out of time to write it today.