(something about oxygen levels); I like the light, the glass still hot from the afternoon sun, the cool conditioned air. Settles the mind. He came to the end of the road.The crumbling castle sat contented upon a rise. His nervous hands juddered on the crunching gravel; he was afraid he might be heard. No, that was impossible; five o’clock is the changing of the guard. The boy braked suddenly, apparently scared of the crimson leaves which flew up, catching the last weak rays of light, and turned back down to fall. The boy dismounted, leaned his bike up against the ivy-wall, headed towards the yew door, paused on the threshold. He left behind the last leaves, dropped from the towering oak, fluttering down towards the city like moths. Where has my tea got to? Ah, five o’clock, the butler will be off duty. My, I am writing awfully quickly today. Looking over what I have written (such an important part of writer’s craft!) it occurs to me that writing is an ever-declining art. Greats are omnipotent – that which bears similarity is a pastiche, difference a break from tradition – ‘noise’. Is that a car on the drive? I am sure I heard something. I’m hearing things. Anyhow, I must reach the denouement before I stop; I shall be finished soon. Perhaps I should ring, just to let someone know that the author is still alive. A sound whispered to him, and the boy naturally cowered. Only the fear of ridicule drove him on, past tapestries of long forgotten battles, through rooms with high, painted ceilings. Desire to pillage, to steal, rose up within him, but he knew only one thing would win acceptance with The Gang. This was easier than the games he played, but he supposed he was unarmed - so that made it fair.There. The boy sees a hunched figure in a plush armchair. Glee and nausea combine. He steps forward tentatively, scared of what he must do, and what if he doesn’t?
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