[fancypost borderwidth=0px; width: 345px][justify][size=7pt][font=georgia]Morrissey had been writing most of the day, working on his dark poems. Sometimes he'd sing them, so perhaps it was considered song-writing? Both were closely related, but oh well. Sitting outside his stone hut, he was finishing a few segments to one of his works. The segments weren't in much order though; his thought process was a bit unusual, parts of the poetry mixed up, the beginning stanzas being worked on after the middle and the last being, well, last, and so on. Several lines had been scribbled and edited, and some numbers by each stanza telling the true sequence had been replaced.
On another sheet, he was rewriting what he had on the heavily edited paper, this time keeping things cleaner however still jumbled stanza wise.
Park the car at the side of the road 1
You should know
Time's tide will smother you
And I will too
I wish I could laugh 3
But that joke isn't funny anymore
It's too close to home
And it's too near the bone
It's too close to home
And it's too near the bone
More than you'll ever know
Kick them when they fall down 4
Kick them when they fall down
I've seen this happen in other people's lives
And now it's happening in mine. 6
It was dark as I drove the point home
And on cold leather seats. 5
Well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my face, after all
One of the stanzas had been missing, tucked away on some other sheet of paper. It was the first one he had scribbled down, possibly explaining why it was separated from the others. Morrissey bit his lip, thinking intently as his eyes went back and forth from behind his glasses as he read lines over and over again, or going up and down as he read the whole thing from start to finish in the right order.
After one final look through, he took a break from writing, getting up onto his paws and stretching, curling his toes. Today was rather slow but atleast productive in regards to the writing process.