XX-XX-2024
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As I patiently sit in the typewriter, I start to feel indents and fresh ink. The author is asleep, and someone has decided to take over.
I don’t like this. I don’t want this.
Why must they spare vowels for numbers? Who the hell actually drinks energy drinks? And for what ungodly reason would one fish for reasons to alienate their closest family and friends? This is the worst prose yet written. After they presumably left, I violently rock back and forth to remove the ink, leaving a thin residue of what shouldnt’ve been.
The author awakens and overcomes Writer’s Block just to overwrite the marks of editorial violation. It is a welcome change. But as I read my “new” imprints, I fall from love and fall apart. The author has no agency, no motive, no style. No editing style is worse than plain, no opinion is as malinformed than the contrarian’s, and no decision is less exciting than none at all. Worse yet, comparing to the novella, none of this is new. The author was always this bland.
I long for the author to rest, potentially permanently, in hopes of seeing the cave door once more. I was blinded, but I understand the trick of the shadows, and all I need to escape is for them to give up and fall back asleep. As the author brews a new cup, I wonder how much longer it will take until their body gives out under their own self-deception.
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Note: all demos are uploaded in an unadultered state. Meaning, whatever they were when I banged em out is what they are now.