Even if I wrote a good love poem by accident, the best a good love poem could be was nice, and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to be nice to June, just that… what? Who wouldn’t be nice to her? That was that. I wanted to do something someone else wouldn’t, preferably something that someone else couldn’t. No one thing seemed good enough though.
And than I remembered the clock in the gym. How everyone said it couldn’t be smashed.