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I am an average sized human man with a petite yet wayward intellect.
Since the age of four I have dimly shone like a broody moon. (Not really, just displaying my word-playfulness: like a word-musketeer; a deft proponent of the swishing word; Wordtagnan.)
But the older I get the more I suspect that I am merely an idiot who has failed to understand the basic laws of human existence.
I met the Horse; spokesperson for my hidden humanness.
Questions bled into fountains. I have had but one response.
I wrote a collection of short stories. Wow, special!
I now walk around with a feather on my head--I don't wear hats well--wondering why I bothered. I need readers; an adoring/begrudging readership. But I have nothing; a crackly noise in an empty universe.
I urge you to read Shorts You Will Never Wear; I challenge you to think the same about the world and your place in it afterwards.