belonging to a Secret Guild and that we share the
same flesh-and-blood journeys and pains as we
regularly throw into the air a 26-lettered Roman
alphabet, a bit out of date, you know; and everyday,
we hope it comes down as Huck Finn or Oliver Twist,
and if it doesn't, well, then into a good book with rewarding reviews.
Obviously, in my darker moments, with only my
screen glowing, I thought of For Whom The Bell Tolls
and Papa Hemingway, one of my favorite writers,
with a 44-gauge Boss shotgun underneath his chin
in Idaho or Virginia Woolf feeling a similar despair
and then filling her overcoat pockets with stones
before walking into the River Ouse; and then, of
course, you have the more recent and fresh suicides
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