post the opening paragraph of your first novel

Farq was born lucky, He was raised in a large loft in lower Manhattan at a period of increasing prosperity in New York city. His father had bought a floor in a co-op and the family had a lot of space. It did have shortcomings, with exposed beams on the cielling and no kitchen sink.

Hoo boy... Not actually the first novel I wrote, but the earliest one I still have.

Smoke filled the air. Broken glass littered the streets. The sound of a rioting crowded swelled and crashed like a stormy sea breaking on a rocky shoreline. All around, masked figures wrought carnage on the desolate streetscape. Windows were smashed. Cars overturned and set ablaze.

It's a bit 'somewhere, an owl hooted'. And it only goes rapidly downhill from there.

Cielling?

entirely intentional

Wed, Jan 1, 313, 01:00 am

I don't think they used that kind of time notation back then

My Rioja was fucking corked last night. I'm so unhappy with the universe right about now.

"I don't think they used that kind of time notation back then" said Saudi national Hurting 2.

You asked for it:

Theramenes, the chief envoy from the city of Athens, took a few steps forward to free himself from too close an association with the rest of the Athenian delegation. At this critical moment he wanted all eyes on himself alone. The other Athenians who had accompanied him to Sparta he dismissed as nothing more than a collection of spies and informers, mere shadows of more powerful men who did not choose to take part in this embassy. All of them fell under this harsh judgement but one. The
exception was Anytos, a friend and political ally whose seat was placed next to his own.

may as well out myself

Christmas Eve, 1955, Benny Profane, wearing black levis, suede jacket, sneakers and big cowboy hat, happened to pass through Norfolk, Virginia. Given to sentimental impulses, he thought he’d look in on the Sailor’s Grave, his old tin can’s tavern on East Main Street. He got there by way of the Arcade, at the East Main end of which sat an old street singer with a guitar and an empty Sterno can for donations. Out in the street a chief yeoman was trying to urinate in the gas tank of a ’54 Packard Patrician and five or six seamen apprentice were standing around giving encouragement. The old man was singing, in a fine, firm, baritone:
Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main,
Sailors and sweethearts all agree
Neon signs of red and green
Shine upon the friendly scene,
Welcoming you in from off the sea.
Santa’s bag is filled with all your dreams come true:
Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne,
Barmaids who all love to screw,
All of them reminding you
It’s Christmas Eve on old East Main.