And thus inspired...

I'm an author. My mommy told me so. Also, my travel mug says I am.

Another mellow Wednesday. A mere 1247 words written today. But no worries, we're well on track. The projected finish date keeps slipping, but as long as we write more than 912 words tomorrow, all is well. Probably be done by Tuesday. Wild.

Here's a pithy bit:

Alone, again, Decimal nowhere to be found, Dot wants to stop walking but can't. Wants to cry but can't. Wants to remember more but can't. Wants to sleep but can't. Wants to want something that he can have. But can't.

Alone, again, still walking, still, only memories of leaves rustling, a wind chime jingling in a breeze, a chill in the air, images from paintings, feelings from images, everything false, everything real, never anything realer than this memory that he is having. Everything fragmented, broken into pieces. Dot is broken into pieces. He wants to know how it all happened but can't.

He is angry now, so angry he is raging inside. The frustration boils over, he looks about wildly, searching for something to destroy, something to bear the brunt of his hatred, his disgust. But it is too late; everything has already been destroyed. What anguish! What pain! His heart is nearly bursting, pumping his ire-filled blood through his veins, beating faster than it ever has, his rage fueled with every beat, and there is nothing to let it loose upon, and he has never felt so useless, so impotent, so defeated.

Hunched over, cursing, gasping for breath, he screams to noone and nothing at all, to everything, to God, he screams, unintelligible, incoherent. He screams to release it, it can never be released, never leave him, this rage. His breathing becomes shallower, calmer, measured. The voices audible, he finally recognizes them. Finally picks one out from the others. His mother. Annie. Cutter. Decimal. He has conversations with them, in his head, talks, yells, screams, rages at them.

And Decimal is the only one that answers.