Out of Scotch

The page was turned before he finished his drink. His eyes focused on the words. They were foreign. They were the best, most honest words he had ever read.

They were too good in fact, he had written them? There was rhythm and motion in each line with brutality that no period could restrain, like a dark wave moving against an old weak levy. Only a sociopath could have constructed their merciless pairings, giving no thought for whom they were about or where they had come. Seeing torture as no more than a game to win. Organizing the words in their most compelling manner. Terrifyingly efficient.

He engulfed his year old words, and his scotch. He had written this? He was fucking brilliant! If he could figure out a way to extract the words somehow, to find inspiration. But there was only pain to be found in these crisp innocent pages.

But.. He supposed his characters needed some pain, why not let them taste his? He turned over his empty glass on the table and turned on his computer.

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