First lines of the novel that I was too busy to write today, because I was busy writing:

"As sun set on the mountaintop, the hermit suddenly wondered — almost aloud — if he was crazy. It was not an epiphany, not in any spiritual sense. It started like an ache, like a pebble in one's shoe. Twilight faded, and his mind capsized, sinking into an icy sea of panic.

All night he sat in the moonlight shadows of a sycamore…”