Shay crouched down next to the small fire, mesmerized by feeding wood inside and watching it be eaten at. He showed no sign of moving.
Huh. I realized I usually declare my Nanowrimo project before November as a formality, so here it is for anyone who hasn't heard.
In the process of carrying both human children and burgeoning novels, you undergo strange transformations of self. You might deviate between being suffused with life and wonder (it's really happening, look at this thing I'm making!) and being swamped in moody fatalism (goddammit shit I'm doing everything wrong where did my slippers go).