First lines of the novel I'm unable to write today:

"The old man stooped to pick up a handful of pine cones, pitched them into a large pail and reached for the Round-Up.

Slowly, carefully, he sprayed each weed that sprouted between the paving stones. Given more time — and if it were ten degrees cooler — he would have pulled them.

Then, a sudden pain shot between his shoulder blades and up into his jaw. His right arm tightened. He dropped the white jug; it toppled onto its side. He wondered if he smelled burned toast, then wondered whether that was just an old wives' tale.

The old man stumbled through the back door, stopping in the guest bathroom where he kept a spare bottle of aspirin.

With a nearly-imperceptible smirk he realized that the weeds he had just sprayed may outlive him."

— Damien Willis,
August 25, 2018