I pitched you a piece of fire but you juggled it with your grubby hands and threw the hot coals to the freezing dry ice clutches of the salesman. We bleed out our souls and have them bottled and shipped to be ingested by uncomprehending minds. Here s a dose of Pearson for ya, suck it up and let me know what you think. In a world where all things are commodities and not experiences, we must tread lightly on this parcel of earth that will soon be shipped to New York, and we must measure our heartbeats, knowing the microbes and worms already have the claim to our bodies. We are stripped stardust awaiting perusal by loopy noodle minds, unaware they seek in these reflections some gleaming instance to guide their hearts home and release the flood of memories from the time when all was golden singing light.
Literature is a return to something.
It is not congruent with the language of green, legal tender that does not really exist in a macroeconomic sense. Ideas are real, as real as the sorry home lives of salesman when they return from bashing Fishboy and other unique intriguing books. The emptiness, the road, the alienated children - and such men stop the literary wine from flowing into aching parched throats. Good luck Mark Richard, even though you seem pretty shiftless and have a snobby name. I hope you swim with the luminous fishes and not with gaping greedy sharks.