A book im writing ^.^

The average looking man trudged into the vacant planes of the mind, breaching the fabric of what was real and surreal, crushing the boundaries of stress and into the reconstruction of mentality, he nay not remember this moment but in the subconscious he still knew it dwell. A woman he watched, sat beneath a tree, seeming to not be passing time but to have time pass her instead. The man taking a breath at her beauty paused to watch her twirl a flower between her fingertips. The man stepped over to her and made a kind bowing gesture, a bold move that the bravest men dare not take. But her being the intrepid young lady she was, she kindly stated in long drawn out words “The corn, grass, and trees are high, of late, its almost the harvest. Yet the villagers haven’t started. Strange to be on the side of procrastination to see the evils that dwell within the belly of it.”. The man taken back by her statement agreed, “My lady, procrastination is but an excuse for ill mannered, children of men that take play before work.”. The woman simply finished, “Yet you, along with all mortal men, do the same.”.

At that finishing statement he opened his eyes, the man from the dream rose from the place he lied the night before, rubbing his crusted eyes. His hand made a motion swiping from side to side then back, back, back to the back of his head. Taking a moment to enjoy the morning glow pouring forth from the window he rose further this man of the morn was Nyx Johnson, weighing in at 5 feet 11 inches and a rough 150 pounds. The toll of life hadn’t taken the full toll on him, his age young, but not young enough to be young, he was 24 years old. Every morning he rose with the same repetition of a ticking clock waving past the time. The man brushed his teeth and changed his clothes, running the morning ritual. Brought to the moment of the adornment of his knightly cloth, the black undershirt he put on, the military pants he buttoned up, the shirt with the sleeves he rolled last night. All of this freshly ironed and crisp with the smell of overused laundry soap and fabric softener. Lastly he put on his socks and polished boots, not to even mention the accessories. Looking in the mirror for the last glance his badge glowed from the dimmest light, it read: Corrections Officer, and as soon as he read that his mind panicked and raced for a solution. He was supposed to write a report for the Tactical Response Team he was in, but lately, he’d just been to busy.

friggin indents. they dont work...

whenever writing a book, never use digits. Always type the word

That is not always true, he used in in the right spots which was at weight and hieght.

Aside from that so far this is pretty interesting^^ Can't wait to see the rest^^

Topic moved to "the library"

Do you have a title?

no title. as of yet.