NEW WRITING:

He tore the book in half, tore it again. Tears would have slid down his face if he'd let them, but he didn't. Pages of the book dropped from him like distorted confetti, gently crashing into the leaf-strewn ground - instant hard-earned poetry. His breathing was heavy in gasps, as he continued to destroy the book, each page pregnant with bitter repose and denial. What does it take to write a sentence, then another sentence, then another - he thought. So many words, just weighing us all down. He watched a torn fragment of the book float down to the ground. He could read it clearly - black print against a cream white background: "I have lived a life, and that life has lived me." He didn't understand: "Words!" He snorted: "Fucking words!"