i've run out of things to say tonight. and as i'm writing this, i'm thinking of bukowski. and i'm thinking of cohen. and i'm thinking of wilde. my poetic, literary heroes.
i picture them sat over their typewriters. sat at their desks. sat at their respective machines or sat upright, pen in hand.
i bet they never had to cope with writer's block. i bet they never had to deal with running out of things to say. they were such prolific bastards.
such magnificent, prolific bastards.
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