I don’t know if it’s the quarantine or what, but the above tweet had some resonance. (NB in the Walter Mitty sense; I have neither the interest nor, probably, disposition to be an assassin.)
I’ve been working on a short story and remain displeased with the opening sentence. It’s fine and all, but it ain’t this:
It is cold at 6:40 in the morning of a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad.
PS I got my copy of “The superthriller of the year!” at the Havre Book Exchange. I bet brand new, though, it started out in a spinner rack. Remember those? Here’s the unhappy tale of how they were coldly executed.