Brian averted his glassy stare that could well have been displaying a vacant plot notice to his pitiful notes on ‘Chapter Four', and looked uneasily over his shoulder to ascertain whether or not another person had crept into the room without his knowledge. He thought, as might well have been the case, an unexpected caller had broken the frustrating stalemate plaguing his over-stressed and tortured mind. In his present state of morbid reflection anything was possible. And, in spite of all he'd said in the memorandum to his son, he didn't have peace of mind, inspiration for his pathetic contribution to literature was not forthcoming, and nothing seemed to make any sense at all.
Why had he even started to write a book, and why had he suddenly become so incensed by the iniquity of the circumstances surrounding and influencing the events in his own life? He had no aptitude for writing, his grasp of the English language left so much to be desired, and he'd never really had any aspirations to become either an author or an active revolutionary.
"Trying to form a club," continued the voice in the same level tone, defying contradiction.
Brian tried shaking his head in a desperate effort to clear his mind of the uninvited intrusion upon his free will. This was an experience he'd not encountered before. And, even after its first few moments, he already doubted his sanity.
It had to be admitted that Brian had been burning the candle at both ends over the past few years. However, he thought he was taking things very easy, now that he was away from the pressure of his normal humdrum business life – and in spite of his newly found preoccupation!
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