We sat in a circle, each of us with a half dead thing in our hands. We had tried to bring them to life on our own. Injecting our own souls, tears and blood into them. But there they were limp, ragged and useless. We hoped that through our shared experience, chanting psalms of encouragement and judgement, one or two of them might see life. There was a time, each of us thought ourselves invincible, that our creations would unfurl to take this world into a new age of darkness with us as its dark lord. We forsaken writers wept.
Madness Heart Radio
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- Max Booth III and Something Indecent about Writing
- Douglas Ford and the Terror of Capitalist Medicine