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“Strange how his entire life could fit on a table, for he was that most despicable of creatures, a serial novelist. A battlefield of failures in the form of crumpled paper littered the ground around the chair. He stared at them forlornly. It was not that they were empty, just that they were full of poison. Ink in the shape of ghosts and curses. Beauty corrupted by darkness.” — Marcel M. du Plessis
Strange how his entire life could fit on a table, for he was that most despicable of creatures, a serial novelist. A battlefield of failures in the form of crumpled paper littered the ground around the chair. He stared at them forlornly. It was not that they were empty, just that they were full of poison. Ink in the shape of ghosts and curses. Beauty corrupted by darkness.