She woke most mornings and reminded herself that she wasn’t the hero of a story, that she wasn’t trapped in the opening chapters of a mid-break act. She questioned where the interlude cards might go, where an omniscient narrator might ruminate on her early-morning vicambulations through the empty, rain-slicked streets. [sunken eyes cast downward] one such card might read. [i’d given up a very long time ago] might read another. [empty] for the change-over between reels.
Wasted Words
Throw me to the wolves.
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bythefaultlines said:
this is eerily familiar, not in that I’ve read anything like it but in how it feels
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