First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:

"He woke up with a migraine. Through razorblade eyes, he was nearly certain that the clock screamed 4:15. This had become his unwelcome routine; every morning, a little earlier. 

Today was the 3-month anniversary of her death, a detail he wouldn't come to notice until he reached for her across their empty bed. And then it would bury him like an avalanche — a freezing landslide of emotion and memory from which even the St. Maarten summer sun would not be able to save him."

— Damien Willis
October 10, 2013