Michael

• he was sitting in the kitchen again, his hair hanging slightly at his temples as he wrote a new book , a shiny glass of whiskey standing on the table in the dim light of the lamp shone with rays on the table , his pen was writing something on a piece of notebook and furiously crossed out , piercing the sheets as a sign of psychosis , he did not know what to write specifically, he could not decide, his eyes narrowed when he took off his glasses * — WHAT THE FUCK?! * he screamed , but felt soft hands on his shoulders, which gently began to massage his knots*

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