I think I might throw my book at the window, the one that sits just to the right of my kitchen sink. I'm going to throw it with all my power so that it breaks through, and flies out into the frozen air that saturates this snowscaped climate. I'm going to throw it hard into the glass so that I can hear the sound of my story breaking through, shattering the boundaries that divide the inside and the out.
I'm going to do it, only because I'm curious and want to listen to the sound it might make. Books crashing through windows, crashing through spaces, and making changes.
Crash,Scrape,Bang,tinkles . . . then a cool open silence. So satisfying.