I have my melodramatic head on. It demands I write something angsty and wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the man who climbed out of a mailbox (thus I wasn't allowed to plot his short tale today, although I'm desperate to know why he's so interested in the store catalogue) and it discouraged any work on my next long piece (a dollop of the 1920s, plus a side slice of the dystopian and a footstep into the far future, known as the mad escapade into losing my marbles or achieving world domination).
My brain gave me the following brief: I want a gorgeous, whimsical, yet gut-wrenching* tale of a girl who is slowly dissolving.
We're in negotiations as to whether she actually dissolves.
Meanwhile, Pastor Best's tale is fermenting on my memo board. While he fusses with his moth-eaten cassock and plays with his intestines, I shall think up a less-suitable name for him.
*Memo to my brain: By gut-wrenching, we usually mean 'pull out someone's insides', but we'll let you play with the other today.