I have spent several weeks walled in the lining of Karl's libraries. His libraries, you see, are mere facades created largely to conceal the books that he has behind them. Karl himself has no interest of the particular matter that has intrigued me but has occasionally a wisp of Chanel No. 5 would mist under the door and materialise into his form.
We acknowledging each other only with the gentlest movement of our noses. I put the kettle on, which was leant to me by my dear friend Cecil, brew tea from the colour Umber and speak in utters.
you can hear him think
ing, it sounds like an old house in a high wind or a crotchet
y clock that refuses to strike 12 - making Cinderella dance forever and never turn back to rags.)
I have discovered such a thing called University. There are many of them, almost like a franchise that specialises in selling Very Little. Some more than others, I'll admit. It is the perfect farce.
I myself never particularly had the need for University. I was approached about working and I thought I might try it for a lark. Apparently there are even entire places that specialise in teaching one how to create. Not just garments and the like, which I could understand as they have some sort of technical know-how that I imagine would be harder to absorb by diffusion. One can garner a Master of Writing from such a place, as though the accreditation is an actual thing.
Part of my perusing of said places I stumbled across one of these supposed writers. She was half a lay-about, catatonic apathy had passed over her and she described it as "musing". She waved a limp hand at a pile of scrap paper, covered in half thoughts.
- Writing is easy - she said - Mondays and Wednesdays I work on my novel, Tuesdays I tutor, Thursdays... -
I have discovered such a thing called University. There are many of them, almost like a franchise that specialises in selling Very Little. Some more than others, I'll admit. It is the perfect farce.
I myself never particularly had the need for University. I was approached about working and I thought I might try it for a lark. Apparently there are even entire places that specialise in teaching one how to create. Not just garments and the like, which I could understand as they have some sort of technical know-how that I imagine would be harder to absorb by diffusion. One can garner a Master of Writing from such a place, as though the accreditation is an actual thing.
Part of my perusing of said places I stumbled across one of these supposed writers. She was half a lay-about, catatonic apathy had passed over her and she described it as "musing". She waved a limp hand at a pile of scrap paper, covered in half thoughts.
- Writing is easy - she said - Mondays and Wednesdays I work on my novel, Tuesdays I tutor, Thursdays... -
- Goldfish - I muttered under my breath as I ran my scatter claws through her scraps. I found one piece of writing that had been created by cellotape and half thought thoughts.
If I still had a functioning oesophagus or tearducts then I... I don't know what would have happened, but it wouldn't have been FASHION. I am lucky I had them removed at a young age.
Masters.
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