A Net to Catch All That Fell Out Of Place

The great thing about literature is that someone else does the dirty work for you. You read something you like and it’s yours to quote, or live by, or discuss objectively. But you’ll never be responsible for having said it.
You can stand up for all that it means, but noone can knock you down for its implicatons. It will never be your child. Rather; it is a child you once babysat, or one who you allowed to play with your own children, but never Your Very Own.
Everyone who has ever longed to inhale the words back into their mouths has loved this about Other People’s Writing.

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Every night now I go to sleep fantasizing about staying in bed; through the morning, into the afternoon and onto the next evening I could stay in bed–utterly taken over by some debilitating sniffle.

‘Mine is a Georgian Handicap’

Lately it feels like I’m walking around with an over-sized, plywood, cut-out of my shadow; carrying it around like some Boston kid holds on to his puffer. Somehow I’m too small to manoeuvre it; it’s ungainly and seems redundant.
But it’s not; what if I run too fast? Or try to stand directly in the sun? This accessory could be the only thing standing between me and total dissolution.

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