Born of melted bone-stew, my first forbears Were conjured to bind and to sustain. Poured Into the cracks and creases of your wares, They sealed flaws forever. Then you soured On such strength, and so
Somewhere, dear Reader, there exists an imaginary handbook on how writers must write their stories. The first chapter of this imaginary handbook dictates to writers how they can and cannot start their stories. There is a list of the ways in which one must not begin the plot under any circumstances. One of these rules mandates that the story must not open with its hero in bed.
"The thing is, it was difficult to get anything done when there was constantly so much to see. Because it’s not like you could simply choose not to look - whether you liked it or not, your eyes would still rest on the bed, on Auntie May’s ridiculous night robes, on your big toe or on the tomato splash on the kitchen wall.