You know you’ve been away from writing too long when you find yourself texting something like this to one of your friends:
Death is involved
The table of slaughter.
Many fish have died on this workbench.
A dreadful place.
Fish parents tell their youngsters about the horrible happenings related to the table of slaughter as they once, with their own eyes, watched as it happend.
Uncle Ben could have had a long happy life.
But then humans came along. Ridning sea monsters the fishes had never ever seen.
A terrible fate it was, and so Uncle Ben was never seen again.
When I was young I used to pretend that my brothers hit me to get them in trouble, well, once I got caught, my father suggested that I should become a lawyer, I suggested a soccer player.
I avoided trouble that day.
This is why I hate needles.