Jazz King, the novel writing guy

 The sweat beaded on my brow. My eyes fixed on the thing in front of me in heavy concentration. One slip and it was all over. Bye bye me. Here today, gone ... today. But I don't want this to happen. I gotta go eventually, I know this. But not yet. Of course it will always (probably) be not yet and eventually a "not yet" will be ignored but let that be a future "not yet" not this one. Don't, whoever the [choice of expletive here] is in charge ignore this "not yet". Where was I?  Oh, yes, my brow sweat was beading, my eyes determinedly fixed on something, trying to avoid a slip that could end me. And if I hadn't distracted myself I'd, maybe, have avoided that slip.

  Through the open window and the not-quite-closed curtain the light, all silvery reflecting its’ journey here via the moon’s grey reflective surface the light made it’s way into the bedroom of a woman lying asleep in her bed, gently snoring, so gentle in fact that it doesn’t really qualify for the snoring category but is a bit more than heavy breathing. It doesn’t really belong to either category, or perhaps is a member of both. But anyway the silvery moonlight was not aware of this categorising difficulty and wouldn’t have been interested in any case as it lit upon the woman in her bed. Her facial features are pleasant, if a little blank. Blank as if … the woman isn’t real somehow. She looks perfectly real but you just get the sense that she looks “too real”. There’s no personality shaping the features, if you get my drift, which possibly you don’t, and that’s quite all right as — but that’s of no consequence. Her belly beneath the covers is large: either the belly of a fat woman...