Michael takes a writing class, but the quality of his writing improves only after he deals with some other areas of his life.
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The clock over the door stood at 2.43. Harrison watched the progress of the minutes. The second hand moved with the thoughtlessness of an underwater plant, caught in a lethargic current. Harrison carefully arranged himself on the stool and listened to the sad, tubercular sighing of the coffee urn. Once again his eyes were drawn back to the clock.
[as a customer in the café Michael is writing about
Well, this isn't very interesting, is it?
I don't understand. Michael used to be very...