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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
When the walls first took on their mirror-like glow, allowing Henry to see his own reflection in just about any direction he happened to turn, he thought it amusing, a novelty of sorts, and he walked around the house looking at himself at every turn from every angle; but when the floors and ceilings took on that reflective quality, and then the couch and chairs and other furniture, the dishes and books and carpet beneath his feet began to reflect, he grew scared that he’d be lost forever, disappearing in some endless picture of himself, and he struggled for a way out, crawling on hands and knees as he bumped into all those things now lost to him, searching the reflection of his own frantic eyes for the door.
As a child, Henry’s demons would often come to the door and ask his mom if he could come outside and wrestle.
The door handle seemed closer to the cat door from the outside.
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