It worked. He reached in back of his kayak, felt the cool neck of a beer, pulled it from its cardboard six-pack holder and placed it in his lap. He liked the way the droplets slowly slid down the glass bottle. He opened the beer and swallowed. The current of the Connecticut River was guiding him directly to the island beach where he would sit in the warm sand and read his book. The mountain was barely in view, he could just make out the cliffs. The summer greenery on each side of the river banks was full and beautiful. He was the only one on the rive
Some writings are more difficult to share, depending on what portion of the person the content came from.
The Angry Birth (Pain) Written by -M. Taggart
He stared at the same imperfections in the sheetrock each time he passed them. The studio apartment was long enough for him to walk eight full footsteps, twelve if he entered his bedroom, before turning around. He no longer rocked in bed. Pacing was exercise. He didn’t want to sit on the deck. Couldn’t. If he did He’d go back to pacing and if he paced too long he’d need to shower. If he showered he wouldn’t be able to pace again…