Adam, in a horrid state, rouses himself up and searches about, no one to be seen.
I confess it again and again.
Begin to deliver a verdict a long time coming: “Guilty. Guilty.”
I miss you baby girl.
The carols, decorations, and glitter drove Marko to anger.
Pete held the bundle of white cloth and in it, the rifle.
My eldest daughter lives in St. Mary’s Hospital psychiatric ward.
His ears buzzed—sound was returning to him.
As I write this passage in late September, there has been an unprecedented heatwave in Montreal for the last ten days.
After ten months of writing it was done. My first novella. I read through it twice, and thought it was pretty good.