The Little Black Book
His hand wavered as he filled in the small bubbles, his pen jumping and dancing outside the bleeding ink rings, filling in those numbers. The ones that had kept him awake and thinking, ruminating, debating, and pretty much everything for the better part of a month. “4,” “32,” “19,” “11,” “40,” and finally, “6.” He surveyed, making sure everything was correct. It was, and when he finished, he felt an odd sense of relief, of ease.
