Writing.

It was a slow day. Even the sun didn’t show up in Calgary today. Nobody wanted to do anything except stay inside and do whatever it was they killed time doing. I sat around and read and drank gin, but none of it really scratched any kind of itch I had for activity. Sometimes, you actually wanted to get something done. So I decided to write a short story about murder and violence, and hoped that that would pass the day. 

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