Webbed Feet: A first paragraph of something and nothing.

This is Webbed Feet's first paragraph, or my first draft of a first paragraph. It is untidy, short and particularly morbid, I apologize for all these faults and still hope you enjoy. Many thanks for taking the time to read.



It is inconvenient that I am sat here, this is a fact for both you and I. Pain is a small price to pay for perfection, didn’t someone say? The length of time to which I will sit here before taking a break from the mindless tapping is unknown. I’d like to suggest a break will be imminent. One trouble I do find on a particularly dank, Summer is the bravery it takes to stand on the porch for a puff. After all it’s an evening where the heat swells in the room while Cockchafers buzz outside unsure of their season. Half my body itches for nicotine, the other for a decent sentence, but I suppose that’s another problem found with people who enjoy writing. They love the sound of their own voice, eloquence, education or there lack of. Sometimes it is comedic to merely write without the fear of etiquette and public opinion. I am less and less and less concerned with public opinion after the lastest things to cross the mainstream shelves have been poor attempts at making me cum and glitter fairy-boys.  This is where this novel will probably stay, saturated by my ‘Writings’ folder, squashed with endless tales and failed paragraphs. The semi-skimmed is half full and I have a driver’s backache… As there is no French masseur to lure my body to climax with Edith Piaf’s ’Non, je ne regrette rien.’ I will settle for a cigarette.