I know him. Sort of.
He didn't seem like much to me,
And when you ask me I mind
I smile and say
"If it makes you happy, baby."
But I stab him with my eyes
And I leave a bite mark on your neck.
He'll find it, but I don't think he'll understand.
I certainly don't.
If there is a special Hell for writers, it would be the forced contemplation of their own works.
-John Dos Passos
Thursday, March 29
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)

No comments:
Post a Comment