If Nothing Else, I Will Have at Least Written This Sentence: Sentences from an Unwritten Novel

His heart spasmed every time he overheard men in conversation in cramped quarters, like a bar or restaurant, using the phrases “moving units” or “price per units” or “number of units,” his eyes promptly glazing over no matter where he found himself as he pictured himself in a grey suit with a conservative yet expensive hat, riding in the back of a sleek black car as it drove over a cliff.

After completely severing his left foot at the ankle, he vowed from that point on the women of the family would have to cut down the annual Christmas tree instead of standing around watching him bleed.

He scoffed at people who thought their passing activated streetlights, believing such foolish idea-making to be worthless to the advancement of society.

He could love you, or he could hate you; he had found very little use for middle ground.

He clung to the idea that remaining mindful and present in the slow motion of a moment amid the onslaught of the daily neurotic, maddening dash of appointments and deadlines and routine maintenance was an option; he implicitly understood that turning off the "device" was key.

His main issue--or perhaps it was just an observation--stemmed from the fact that he was already thinking about how he could write about whatever he was experiencing or observing before the experiential or observational act, or state, concluded; all of his other problems--or "ways"--branched away from this stem.

He wouldn't be present at the memorial due to family obligations, but then again he wouldn't have been completely present anyway, smiling and chatting and persevering.