He became a writer for the feeling of control, but look at this! His main character’s love interest, still covered with paper cuts from scrambling off the page, stretches a length of rope between her hands. She grins, lips red in a way that brings to mind unfortunate similes, and lovingly, caressingly, sweetly, wraps the hemp around his neck and yanks.
As he slips into the unconsciousness that precedes death, he is still grateful for two things: that he can no longer see the red heap that was his main character, and that he spent the advance.
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