![]() ![]() People sometimes asked him where he got his ideas, and although he scoffed at the question, it always made him feel vaguely ashamed, vaguely spurious. It was ink on paper, but it wasn't the ink and it wasn't the paper. It wasn't like a vase, or a chair, or an automobile. Well, a story was a thing, a real thing-you could think of it like that, anyway, especially if someone had paid you for it-but in another, more important, way, it wasn't a thing at all. And when the knives, glittering in the hot sun of this huge secret garden Mort turned to run, but a hand-Amy's, he was sure-seized him by the belt and pulled him back. Yeah, it'll be him, all right-the one person in the whole wide world I shouldn't be talking to with my guard down and one half of my mind feeling unbuttoned from the other half. or go rummaging through his glove compartment for a stray or two as he was now rummaging through his desk. He'd never felt the need to turn in to the next convenience store on his way for a deck of smokes. But the key word there, of course, was 'momentary.' Those feelings passed in a hurry, like fierce rainsqualls-five minutes after a blinding silver curtain of rain has dropped out of the sky, the sun is shining again. This wasn't the first time he'd felt that way in the last four years there had been times when just seeing someone puffing away behind the wheel of a car next to his at a stoplight could set off a raging momentary lust for tobacco. The most obvious thing, of course, was that it had made him feel like he needed a cigarette.
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