“The light filtered through the window like fresh morning coffee, a slow drip of liquid gold-- ... No, that won’t work.”
Salvatore sighed as he practically ripped the sheet of paper from the typewriter. He crumbled it into a ball, tossing it over his shoulder to the ever-growing pile behind him. This had to have been at least the fiftieth draft of incomprehensible drivel that he had produced, and not a single fi...
