She thumbed through them, and found a lot of the work was very poor. She bit her lips. This was discouraging, she never could be able to show these to...Marilyn. She sighed and felt the cold draft of the closet airplay on her, giving her a chill. ‘I’ll never make it as a writer,’ she thought. Her mind washed itself in waves of cold cruel doubt, and she felt very small. By living at Marilyn’s, even for these few days, she still put herself in someone else’s house. She wasn’t on her own, she had no. Too much for her liking actually. Every single cell she passed were crowded with minions of different manner, scrambling for her attention. Some screaming for her to come closer, some yelling rape threats, and others just generally looking on passively with lustful looks in their eyes. The noise back then was deafening. What had happened to everyone? Why was she the only one left? Or was she simply last in line, soon to find out? She looked at his back from where she followed and decided she. More

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