Cormac McCarthy touched the tip of the pencil with his tongue and resumed writing. He could no longer remember where this godforsaken string of words had started. The old window creaked in the wind. Darkness fell around him. It was winter now, but it would be summer before this pencil would mark the paper with the period that would finally end the sentence. End the paragraph. End the chapter, letting him start anew. If there ever was a man who loved any words more than reason allowed, Cormac was that man and the words were his own. He nodded silently to himself. He kept writing.
Posted on: Tue, 23 Dec 2014 18:43:43 +0000