Wretched day.  Write a little.  Wipe the tears.  Edit that.  Wipe the tears again.  More writing.  Clean the tears from my glasses.  Put them on again.  Write some more.  Tears.

Save.  Close the chapter away in its file.

…know another hour will come when I have to edit again, and I’ll be weeping once more, suffering this ending a thousand times, one hundred words readers will skim in seconds, words for which I’ve suffered days and days, weeks, months.

Nobody cares.

Still crying because it has to be done.