[ WP ] Trying and failing to finish your third novel , you rent a house in an extremely remote location in order to avoid distraction . Every night , however , you hear the sound of a distant bell ringing , louder and closer with each passing evening .

But her laugh sill rang in my head. 
 
 But her smile still impressed an indentation on the folds of my mind. 
 
 But the smell of her expired skin and flesh still resounded, rancidly, in the thick of my nostril hairs. 
 
 But that was then. Now the sound of the bells ring in my head. Now the sound of the bells impress an indentation in the folds of my mind. Now the sound of bells resound in the thick of my nostril hairs. But now she's also dead. But now my third novel is almost done. But now it's been something like three, four rotations'round the old star. Now is now, though. Now is not then. 
 
 Dissonant and distant, these bells have replaced the irreplaceable and set a displaced mad man into a delirium so disorderly that he may die a sane man. 
 
 DING-DANG-DONG 
 
 The bells begin to play their song. 
 
 It starts off slow, but contemporary—like your standard church bell or rich folk door bell. 
 
 DING-DIANG-DOWL-DOWL... 
 
 The bells then begin to follow this pattern to it's obvious and natural point of infinite dissonance. I've yet to transcribe much of it, but I do believe the formula for their progression is all quite clear in the excerpt I've presented above. 
 
 The bells now tickle my ears ( what fun! ). They twist my mind ( delightfully ). I'm manic and smelling the full spectrum of their trans-sonic wonder. 
 
 `` Bells! Bells! Bells! ``, I greet my friends 
 
 DING-DIIIING-DOOOONGUUH 
 
 `` ILOVEYOUSOMUCH!''. My words join quickly in giddy excitement. `` For your voice i'd climb to the top of the tallest mountain!''. I remember hearing the tallest mountain is actually in the ocean, so I rephrase, `` For your voice, I'd move out of three New Yorks to three more deserts to write three more third books!'' 
 
 DING-DONG-DING-BUM 
 
 I giggle feverishly. The bells must be pleased. They've entered my hands and I'm writing again. I'm writing faster than I can process and begin hearing nothing but the bells, but words are scribbled across the paper and I'm laughing and I'm in pure ecstacy and punctuation and etiquette are no matter for my voice is the voice of the enlightened because I must be enlightened because the bells chose me. They chose me at such a critical time, I think, because that was the only way I'd accept them. Now I collect their musings in the form of letters and words and sentences and the like in the form of manuscripts which I file beneath the rocks of my new desert home. I'm naked. 
 
 But I'm not alone. 
 
 I've soiled myself. 
 
 But the desert is forgiving and the bells are still delightful. 
 
 But she's still dead. 
 
 But she still attaches herself to my manuscripts. 
 
 Stupid bitch. 
 
 These manuscripts belong to me and the bells. 
 
 I cry and soil my manuscripts. 
 
 Now it's three of us soiled in the sun. 
 
 Me, sitting in my piss, sweat, blood and rectal discharge. 
 
 Her, sitting in the dry, liquid goop that forms from baked epidermis and such. 
 
 And my manuscript, soiled by tears. 
 
 DING-DING-DING-DIUUNBUNGBUUUUU 
 
 And now the bells have gone and soiled themselves as well. 
 
 Today is not my day.
