Alone in his chamber, he reclined; gathering the blankets about himself. For weeks, autumn had skulked, furtive, in the shadowed corners of the park at dusk like a band of stoned teenagers. Now, though, she waited brazenly in the garden for him, wearing a woolly jumper and a grin, brandishing a cricket bat stained with the crimson portent of hardship to come.
"I shall include a picture," he muttered to himself. "A nice one, of me. People like pictures." He had read that somewhere. He had read that people were more inclined to engage with social media content if it came with an image attached. "People are so stupid," he spat, under his breath; "People are so stupid and awful and it makes me sick to my stomach that I am one. Why do I want them to read my work so badly?" Concluding that, stupid and hateful though people may be, he was the most contemptible of all for so desperately courting their approval; he grimaced and knocked back the remainder of his nightcap. The hand-warmed lager backwash caught in his throat, and he covered his mouth as he spluttered and cursed. With the other hand, he hit 'Post'.
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