The Dock at Ink Lake

Badness, the library closes shortly. I have only a little time to write.
Today, Ephraim and I were removing some pretty-good-quality wood floor in the kitchen. We have to take it out because there are a whole lot of pipes down there to remove and some plumbing to be done. We almost finished today. A continuar...
"Doesn't that bit there remind you of a dock?" Ephraim said with a smile in his voice.
There was a part we'd left because it made the rest of the work easier, and just below it you could see Ink Lake, as I have just named it. Ink Lake is an under-house lake that is black and oily as ink, only less pure, with dust floating blithely on top. The thing that's a little narviating is that, as we take out more floor, we begin to realize that it wasn't just the bathroom and laundry room that had bad supports. The whole house is like that.
I'm going outside to finish this.
Hm, I don't like going outside where it's cold to write. Even in my thiwuba, which is as warm as a coat, I find it unpleasant. It is a really sweet, quiet place to write though... the buildings are all beautiful from here; cars pass by slowly on the small roads that pass through the middle of the city.
I can look around while I type, and I can see, on a roof tiled with green, a row of black-looking birds. The sky is just a little pink and fades quickly to light blue. Did you notice that in the morning there is a gray-blue, and in the evenings it's the palest blue of all, and in the nights the very deepest? Blue used to be my favorite color.
I just finished writing a story. It's about a high-schooler--now, don't think I can't write about something I've never lived: I can! And I'll be putting it on my story blog after Ghost Assassin.
The End.