The untitled draft was his epitaph. 

Padding in stocking feet like a cat on the prowl, she slipped out of the house once again. 

Pete's long game was so protracted he died decades before his plans could come to fruition. 

 "Treat work as a game, life as a hobby, and love as a loaded gun, and you'll do fine," my uncle advised me that hot summer day when I had my first taste of beer. 

 Over the next rise, the road revealed an unimaginable vista so wild and wide it took her breath away. 

 The twisting alleyways, cobbled and cracked, led to darker places and deadends. 

The shifting ground beneath their feet made for better dancing.