I slouched unsmiling in my plush green rocking chair swaying back and forth with a manuscript of 123 pages lying open on my lap. My eyes weaved back and forth across the page and my mind absorbed the words, translating the language into images in my mind. I tasted their cohesion, their flow, with my tongue slightly out, and made a little red, what I liked to call "tick" mark on the corner of those pages that lacked sufficient eloquence, or rather, made some part of me pull taut and even twanged some horrible note that meant it didn't fit....
My fingers manipulated the keyboard like crafty spider legs. It was all so routine. I was disappointed with my routine manuscript, a lack-luster romantic-comedy plotline dedicated to the twenty-something dateless readers our company tended to cater to.
Raffaele said: "When she arrived the front door was wide open. She thought it was weird, but thought maybe someone was in the house and had left it ajar.
"But when she went into the bathroom she saw spots of blood all over the bath and sink. That's when she started getting really afraid and ran back to my place because she didn't want to go into the house alone. So I agreed to go back with her. When we walked in together, I knew straight away it was wrong. It was really eerily silent and the bathroom was speckled with blood like someone had flicked it around, just little spots.
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I tasted their cohesion, their flow,".......
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