First Lines, 11/15/13
First lines of the novel I didn't write today:
"The first of December faded like an ache — nearly imperceptible. He remembered every tiny significance the date carried... His grandparents' anniversary, married 62 years. It faded, much like the memory of a distant morning rainstorm. It danced across the room, across an unusually well-lit windowsill. It left his life forever, with but the smokey smell of last night's pool hall, clinging to a lapel, begging to be remembered."
— Damien Willis
November 15, 2013