(no subject)
Jack Driscoll began to think hiding in the future was a bad idea. He couldn't write. He couldn't get out of bed. These had become problematic today, though Jack had found it difficult to rise from bed all week. Jack was unsure whether his chat with Mary Anne had helped, last night. He hadn't felt this bad yesterday, but perhaps the admition that he ought to be alone opened a dam of grief, and he was suffering the consequences. Or maybe he was simply fufilling the prophecy he had made last night. He ought to hide, they ought to forget him so they could move on.
He wasn't certain about how he would move on. If he would move on. If he could move on.
He wasn't certain about how he would move on. If he would move on. If he could move on.