My movie. I novel. Me story.

“For growing plants? What the hell kind of plants do you need to grow inside?”
“Now John, I have several of my spider plants and aloe vera inside. Helps you control the temperature. But, I just set mine on the windowsill. Would that not be enough light for what you have?”

I, the writer, whose hand hurts twitching against the leaky tip of this pen, one of the good ones, one I found beneath the seat cover in my Jeep just last week, would like to take a momentary reprieve from inventing details, conversations, actions and generally walking readers, imaginary also, through an amalgamation of the college aged memories which are being manipulated, rewritten and twisted into this story, to portray the sheer apprehensive and finely sharpened terror which filled these brother and sister characters, over-brimming actually, whose eyes were now stretched to the size of half dollars.

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