the drama sutra
walden freeman
Posts: 511
in a cave just outside of the reach of mailtrucks and carrier pigeons lies in wait a typewriting madmen filling his veins with the same ink used to draw our childhood comic book superheroes. a writer of other peoples' autobiographies; an undeclared politician for the third wing; . a local girl once asked him what he did. he told her "i'm a poet . . . i write stories." she didn't seem impressed and neither did anyone else but least of all, he himself had become so uninspired that he eclipsed each lamp in his flammable home with old notebooks filled with octopus ink and covered in cigar ashes. so in these waning days of summer, each villager has taken a liking to reading short stories about settling dust and dust settling the wild west and all the churches being built out of solid ice. the luxurious, reinforced porcelein toilets uptown and the fervent spread of veins under the permafrost has really been getting to all of us. most of all mailcarriers and cavedwellers.
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