She's still there, isn't she? I can feel her presence in my word choice, in the emptiness of my dreams and the bleakness of the world around me. Descriptions aren't exactly her speciality, are they? Let me give her a hand. I wouldn't want to be found dead in a badly written story.
I'm in the old library of my grandma's house – it's a big old mansion by the seaside, with creaking floorboards, exceptionally high ceilings full of cobwebs and the mixed smells of oriental incense and dust. After I broke up with Joel, I gave grandma a call and asked if I could stay with her for the summer. She was surprised as I hadn't seen her for, like two years, but I was more than welcome to. I promised I would paint all the woodwork in return. It's about ten o'clock p.m., and from the library window, I can see the setting sun colouring the sky pink and orange. There, that's what I call setting. Now let's move on with this story so that this girl in her pyjamas can leave me alone. What can I do to satisfy her? I know – get back together with Joel. I'll give him a call and ask if he wants to come up. I'm sure he will – he loves the sea.