The final Friday's worth of four lines of prose of 2012 would like you to write about: the miner.
Still feeling pretty tired and weak, but at least I'm starting to trust my stomach again. Hopefully another night of decent sleep will finish the job.
Everything he touches is black. No matter how long he scrubs and tears at the flesh of his hands, a smudge of coal marks his progress through the town, through the shops, through his home.
There is no hope of escaping the mines.
For his entire world, touch by reluctant touch, is transforming into one.