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Write That Book,
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 I grew up in a time when people roamed the streets. A time where everyone filled malls and schools, buying and learning. A time where my parents took the bus to work and I stayed at home with a babysitter who cycled to me. It was a simple time, but only in the sense that everything was incredibly basic.
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 You could almost hear the sun that day. When I say that, I mean you could hear everything cooking under its light. The rocks hissed when a drop of sweat hit them. Unfortunately, the time we spent indoors was little thanks to the farm owners. The owners watched from the shade of the house as we walked hard, cracked earth towards the plants that thrived.
 “Are you sure you want to buy one?” Susan asked.
“I have to buy one if I am going to open a saloon,” I replied. “You know the clientele we receive aren’t all bankers and ranchers. We need some sort of security, you more than me.” “I know how to look after myself.”  I flattened myself on the ground, feeling the blades of grass curl around my arms and legs. It was unpleasant at first, but I had to do what my father told me. I quickly grew used to it, the dirt on my clothing, the discomfort of small rocks. However, it was necessary to ensure we weren’t seen.
 The day that was so easily remember, at least if we had the choice, we would have. So much sadness...so much anger. We were crippled by emotions, lies and weakness. On one hand, it would reach that point sooner or later, but the way we went, it was what doomed us to this torment.
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