First Lines, 05/17/14
First lines of the novel I'm not writing today:
"If you asked his friends, they might say he began to crack the day he drove up into the mountains and took 200 pictures of a clear, blue sky. Or the day he showed up at her house in his muddy pickup truck with a tent in tow, carrying a boombox like he'd seen in a movie, prepared to stay for as long as it took. But that wasn't when it started. It started 17 months earlier, in a hospital cafeteria, under the watchful eyes of the orderlies. It started 24 inches above a Silite food tray, in the cloudy imagination of a daydream. It started when she walked into the room."
— Damien Willis
May 17, 2014