...

It is four in the morning or so.

I went to open up the front door, and my cat came dashing in with a quickness. I had forgot she went outside. She was cold to the touch, and mewed at me with one part indignation, and one part resignation. She then began to pur with the exact timbre characteristic of Stockholm syndrome.

I sit down at my desk to write, about no particular topic, and find my mind in a draught.

Perhaps I'll try fiction today. You know what they say, fiction is all about voice. So, here goes nothing.

Chapter One

My neck is stiff, and my hip sore.

Remarks

Gee, this is hard. By the way, that's totally not about me, but is just some generic first-person protagonist. It's got imagery, I guess, but it could use more.

Chapter One (Revised)

My spine, as sessile as a sea anemone's non-spine, writhes from the stampede of a most unholy chariot of abominable sensations, and my hip (five-hundred inches in diameter) is as sore as a bird.

Remarks

See? Who has a five-hundred inch hip? Now it's definitely not about me! And it's got a simile and a pun; now that's what I call killing two birds with one stone! It's verbose and lacks symmetry though, but alas, us aeternal consciousness rarely exhibit as much elegant reciprocity as our meagerly physics would suggest.