Tired of the wine, the prose, all. But the sparkle resides in my character. Everything she says. All her movements and mannerisms. She notices not my notice. I’m wrong for this, probably. Her motions pleasurably entrap my map. If she exists, then I don’t.
Want everything to halt. For her. My character. This has to be wrong. I must be ill. When the novel’s done, do we dissolve? I might. But she, eternity. Need more of her. For these pages. Before I lose ages. I’m pulled, folded, by my own character. Loving it. I sip the Cabernet again, hoping she’ll willingly reside with my side, indefinitely...
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