This is a fine and excellent start to a semi-dystopian story.
I’M NO GOOD AT STARTING DIARIES, so let me try this: My name is December Page. Every day, I go to an office and sit in a cubicle, where I collect words. Not just words. Whole sentences, sometimes, on a good day, if I’m lucky. Other times, I’ll get parts of a sentence, a broken clause here, simple subject there. Occasionally I’ll be very fortunate and get only the predicate, then I’m left to compose the subject myself. On those days, I feel very much like what they used to call an author, a person who’s whole life revolved around putting words together in beautiful, thrilling ways.
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